OVERMAN 


MIRIAM 
MICHEI,SON 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR  : 

"  In  the  Bishop's  Carriage  " 

"The  Madigans" 
'  The  Yellow  Journalist  " 


JESSIE    INCELL 
'She  cauRht  his  eye  and  held  it  defiantly' 


Set  page  rS 


Anthony  Overman 

BY 

MIRIAM  MICHELSON 

Author  of  "In  the  Bishop's  Carriage,"  Etc. 


Illustrated  by  John  Cecil  Clay 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1906 


Copyright,  1906,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  August,   1906 


All  rights  reserved, 

including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian 


STACK 

•  'NEX 


PRINCIPAL  CHARACTERS 

ANTHONY  OVERMAN,  who  is  variously  described 
herein  as  "  One  of  the  obscure  Christs." 
"Just  a  Crank."  "Only  a  theory-box." 

JESSIE  INCELL,  a  newspaper  woman,  "who 
walked  into  people's  holy  of  holies  or  most 
grisly  skeletoned  closet  with  clicking  heels 
and  a  cheerful  unconsciousness  of  her  un- 
human  lack  of  both."  This  was  her  own 
judgment,  delivered  half-humorously,  half- 
pathetically  in  after  years.  But  a  man  who 
worked  with  her  declared  she  was  "  a  wo 
man  with  a  man's  tolerance  and  a  clear, 
big  brain,  and  the  sweetest,  most  spirited, 
jolliest  face  in  the  world." 

DEAN  MORGAN,  "  An  average  man,"  he  once 
said  of  himself,  "  not  a  bit  better  than  other 
men,  and  not  so  sure  besides  that  other  men 
are  very  bad." 

WILL  DONAGHEY,  A  Renunciant  first;  later  a 
Protestant. 

HILMA  HULSBERG,  simple,  sincere,  loving;  essen 
tially  feminine. 


PRINCIPAL  CHARACTERS— Continued 

THE  MINOR  CHARACTERS  include  a  labor  leader, 
a  minister  of  the  gospel,  a  successful  physi 
cian,  a  young  violinist,  a  woman  newspaper 
artist,  a  landlady  unsoured  by  experience, 
etc.,  etc. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

JESSIE  INCELL — "  SHE  CAUGHT  HIS  EYE  AND  HELD 

IT  DEFIANTLY" Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

ANTHONY  OVERMAN — "  '  DOES  IT  STRIKE  YOU  AS  so 

VERY  ODD,'  HE  DEMANDED  GRAVELY,  '  THAT  A 
FELLOW  SHOULD  HAVE  AN  IDEAL  AND  TURN  HIS 
BACK  ON  CONVENTIONAL  IDEAS  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF 
IT?'" I4 

"'WHY  DIDN'T   YOU    SAY  IT   ALL — THAT  NIGHT   I 

LEFT,   WHEN    I    WAS     JUST — HUNGERING    FOR     A 

WORD  FROM    YOU  !  '  " 1 54 

"THE  TWO  POLICEMEN — ONE  SITTING  BESIDE  HIM, 
THE  OTHER  STANDING  WATCHFULLY  BEHIND, 
DREW  CLOSER  AND  SLOWLY  THEIR  FINGERS 
CLOSED  UPON  THEIR  WEAPONS  " 224-225 

" '  OH,  PITY  ME — No — GOOD-BYE  ! '  " 300 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN 


ANTHONY    OVERMAN 

CHAPTER    I 

ONCE  this  road,  along  which  the  girl  strolled, 
was  a  wandering  path,  trodden  out  through 
the  thick  manzanita  by  a  thirsty  grizzly 
on  his  way  from  the  Sierras  down  to  the  river. 

Later  the  miners,  surging  up  through  the  gulches 
and  canyons,  found  the  uncertain  trail,  and  their 
restless  feet  beat  it  into  a  topographical  fact. 

By  the  time  the  primitive  poetry  of  straining 
gold  out  of  water  had  yielded  to  the  more  profitable 
prose  of  hydraulic  mining,  the  little  gap  through 
the  chaparral  and  over  the  ridge  had  been  em 
phasized  till  it  was  recognized  as  a  roadway;  and 
the  manzanita,  and  her  big  sister  the  madrone, 
withdrawing  their  skirts  from  under  the  careless 
feet  that  trampled  upon  them,  had  retreated  up  the 
hillsides,  where  they  could  look  down  upon  the 
bare,  ever-widening  parting  in  the  forest  over 
which  horses  were  driven  now,  and  the  wheels  of 
wagons  heavily  loaded  ground  out  the  humbler 
growth  which,  through  its  obscurity,  had  persisted. 

Then  the  general  name  with  which  the  pass  had 
been  indicated  became  specific  and  capitalized 
and  Little  Gap  grew  into  a  town;  a  most  un- 


4  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

assuming  California  village  straggling  contentedly 
on  either  side  of,  or  rather  punctuating  at  intervals, 
the  road  that  had  created  it — the  road  which, 
although  it  now  ends  ingloriously  at  the  crudely 
ugly  railroad  station,  irresistibly  leads  the  eye  up, 
up  to  the  summit  of  the  Sierras. 

And  there  is  a  breeziness,  a  spaciousness,  an 
undefiled  ecstasy  of  purity  about  the  High  Sierras. 
Nature,  yet  untainted  by  man,  has  expressed 
herself  largely  in  mighty  pine-clad,  snow-topped 
blue  mountains  and  rolling  stretches  of  foot-hills; 
in  rivers  whose  clarity  is  as  perfect  as  the  first 
snow-formed  drops  that  heralded  them;  and  a 
sky  of  chaste  and  limpid  blue,  pale  as  with  awe 
of  the  celestial  wonders  it  has  gazed  upon.  But 
there  is  an  effect  of  simplicity  with  it  all,  an 
omission  of  sensational  landscape  contrasts. 
These  Western  Alps  were  conceived  in  no  semi- 
theatrical,  awe-awakening  mood,  and  yet  a  steadily 
uplifting  consciousness  of  broadly  built  beauty, 
set  in  a  canvas  of  inspiring  height  and  depth,  comes 
to  him  who  looks  for  the  first  time,  as  this  girl 
Jessie  Incell  did,  upon  the  almost  primeval  purity 
of  this  still  new  bit  of  the  world. 

Not  that  Miss  Incell  was  unusually  susceptible 
to  the  beauty  of  Nature.  She  had  been  too  busy 
since  she  left  school — not  so  long  ago — to  become 
a  connoisseur  in  the  works  of  the  Artist  who 


ANTHONY   OVERMAN  5 

paints  one  subject  continually  yet  never  twice 
alike.  The  world  of  men  and  women  had  far  too 
great  an  interest  for  her  to  permit  Nature's  still- 
life  to  overshadow  it.  She  was  possessed  of  a  not 
unhealthy,  wide-awake,  good-natured  curiosity 
about  other  people's  affairs.  As  for  her  own,  she 
was  practical,  optimistic  and  successful,  and  her 
profession,  which  she  looked  upon  as  so  essential 
an  element  of  her  life  that  she  could  not  conceive 
herself  apart  from  it,  intensified  the  very  qualities 
that  fitted  her  for  it. 

Still  the  influence  of  the  place  and  the  time — it 
was  twilight — fell  upon  her.  Her  work  brought 
her  into  many  queer  places  and  into  all  sorts  of 
queer  people's  lives,  but  it  rarely  took  her  away 
from  the  city,  whose  every  year  of  prosperous 
growth  was  undoing  the  work  of  centuries  in 
which  Nature  had  made  it  beautiful  for  man  to 
unbeautify.  So  Miss  Incell  walked  down  the 
road  from  the  village  and  off  toward  the  clearing 
in  the  forest,  with  a  sense  of  vacation  relaxation* 
that  rarely  accompanied  her  in  her  little  journeys 
of  inquiry  into  other  people's  business.  For 
her  profession  required  concentration,  although 
her  temperament,  as  well  as  the  keen,  ever-renewed 
interest  she  felt  in  each  subject  that  came  under 
her  observation,  made  devotion  to  the  matter  on 
hand  a  pleasure.  But  this  evening  she  strolled 


6  ANTHONY   OVERMAN 

along  consciously  enjoying  the  free,  sweet  air  that 
blew  down  from  the  mountains,  whose  snowy 
caps  glittered  late  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  and 
the  fresh  coolness  of  evening,  so  grateful  after  her 
long,  hot  ride  in  the  train.  And  yet  earth  and 
sky,  mountains  and  forest  became  negligible  and 
unreal  to  Miss  Incell  as  the  mere  background 
against  which  life  plays  itself,  when  she  rounded  a 
turn  in  the  path  and  came  to  a  small  clearing  in 
the  forest  in  which  a  little  log  cottage  stood,  its 
broken  gaping  windows  and  shabby  need  of  re 
pair  revealed  by  the  leaping  flames  of  the  bonfire, 
by  whose  light  two  men  and  a  woman  were  un 
packing  a  pitifully  small  load  of  household  goods. 
A  trained  instinct  in  the  young  woman  took 
quick  possession  of  the  rude  stage-setting.  With 
no  conscious  recognition  of  the  mental  process  she 
had  found  the  words  to  describe  .this  brave,  poor, 
thriftless  little  hegira,  the  supple  young  Irishman 
who  had  unhitched  the  horse  and  was  leading  it 
to  the  tumble-down  stable  behind  the  house,  the 
fair  Swedish  woman,  evidently  his  wife,  who  was 
standing  with  sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  elbow,  issuing 
orders  as  to  the  disposal  of  the  furniture,  and  the 
bearded  giant  in  overalls,  jumper  and  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hat  who  bent  his  strong,  young 
back  to  take  upon  it  the  kitchen  stove  he  was  to 
carry  into  the  house. 


ANTHONY   OVERMAN  7 

Jessie  Incell  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  great 
trees  watching.  Along  with  a  self-gratulatory 
recognition  of  her  good-fortune  in  arriving  just 
at  a  dramatic  moment  in  these  people's  lives, 
there  came  the  prudent  consciousness  that  many 
a  good  "story"  is  wrecked  because  of  a  faulty  ap 
proach  to  the  subject  of  it.  Still  there  was  some 
thing  so  primitive,  so  unsophisticated  about  this 
little  settlement  and  the  settlers  out  here  in  the 
woods  that  caution  came  to  appear  unnecessary 
and  Miss  Incell  advanced  at  length  within  the 
circle  the  fire-light  spread  upon  the  grass. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  looking  for  Mr.  Over 
man — Mr.  Anthony  Overman,"  she  said  address 
ing  the  party  as  a  whole,  though  she  knew  quite 
well  which  of  the  two  men  was  the  one  she  sought. 
"Can  you  tell  me  where  I  might  find  him  ?" 

Her  rather  high,  self-possessed  voice  with  its 
cultured  girlish  lilt  fell  upon  the  little  group  en 
gaged  in  the  earliest,  least  self-conscious  occupation 
of  mankind— homebuilding — and  dissolved  it  into 
conventional  elements.  The  woman  in  the  door 
way  stepped  back  into  the  house,  suddenly  aware 
that  she  was  not  prepared  to  meet  a  visitor.  The 
young  Irishman,  following  her  immediately,  threw 
up  a  resenting  chin  at  the  interruption,  feeling 
that  same  but  belated  sense  of  intrusion  that  the 
Indians  had  when,  long  ago,  the  gold-seekers  came 


8  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

to  build  this  little  house  by  the  American  river, 
whose  upper  tributaries  were  once  so  treasure- 
laden.  The  big  young  man,  who  had  now  de 
posited  the  stove  inside  the  house,  straightened 
his  back,  as  he  walked  down  the  few  wooden  steps, 
loosened  the  handkerchief  knotted  about  his  per 
spiring  throat,  took  off  his  hat  as  he  advanced  to 
meet  her  and  said: 

"I  am  Anthony  Overman." 

"How  fortunate  I  am  to  find  you,"  she  said, 
sparring  verbally  for  time  to  study  him  before  she 
should  disclose  her  errand.  "They  told  me  at  the 
hotel  that  you  would  probably  be  very  busy 
toi-day. " 

"  I've  been  going  about  trying  to  get  the  loan  of 
a  horse  so  that  Donaghey  and  Hilma  could  get 
into  the  place  before  night.  You  see  everything's 
upset,  I  can't  ask  you  in.  But  won't  you  sit  down  ?" 
He  pointed  to  the  low,  broad  stump  of  a  tree* 

Miss  Incell  had  the  genius  for  adapting  herself 
to  circumstances  which  made  life  both  easy  and 
pleasant  to  her,  and  she  sat  down  now  on  the 
rooted  stool,  her  attitude  showing  so  comfortable  a 
disregard  for  inconveniences  that  Overman,  re 
lieved  as  to  the  disposition  of  a  young  lady  visitor 
whom  he  had  never  before  seen  or  spoken  to, 
leaned  his  shoulder  against  the  nearest  oak  and 
stood  attentively  looking  down  upon  her. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  9 

"I  wonder,  Mr.  Overman,"  she  said  looking  up 
with  a  most  fetching  air  of  innocent  interest, 
"whether  you  would  give  me  some  information 
about  a  peculiar  sect  up  here  called  The  Renun- 
ciants  ?  I've  just  come  up  from  San  Francisco 
this  afternoon  and  at  the  hotel  they  suggested  my 
coming  to  you." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"Why—  '  His  simplicity  disarmed  her,  so  that 
the  directness  of  the  question  was  almost  dis 
concerting,  but  she  went  on  cheerily.  "Why, 
everything  you  will  tell  me.  I've  heard,  you  know, 
of  the  trouble  up  here  and— 

"You  mean   about  the  community's   breaking 

5  " 

up  r 

"Yes,"  she  assented  encouragingly. 

"Well,  there  isn't  much  to  tell.  A  number 
of  men  and  women — I  am — I  was  one  of  them 
— have  come  to  California  from  all  parts  of 
the  country  to  live  as  a  community  in  what 
we  have  called  the  City  of  Peace.  There  is 
nothing  remarkable  about  any  of  us,  nor  any 
thing  very  new  about  the  experiment.  We  simply 
thought  that  out  here  we  could  establish  a  colony 
on  the  lines  that  Renunciants  believe  in,  and 
live  a  life  of  purity,  industry  and  peace.  Brother 
Ariel — Mr.  Senn  .  .  .  You  have  seen  Mr. 
Senn?" 


io  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"No.    1  wanted  to.     But  he  is  out  of  town." 

"At  Auburn.  He'll  be  back  tomorrow  very 
likely.  Senn  can  tell  you  more  than  I  and  of 
course  no  one  can  form  an  opinion,  a  just  opinion, 
without  hearing  his  side.  Our  side  is  just  this: 
we  looked  upon  Senn  as  part  apostle,  part  father, 
part  manager  of  us.  He  had  charge  of  our  busi 
ness  and  was  the  leader  in  our  spiritual  aspirations. 
We  found  him  to  be  dishonest  in  the  management 
of  our  affairs.  We  learned  that  he  was  evading 
the  obligations  of  religion — our  religion  which  he 
had  founded — and  was  leading  a  life  of  such  im 
morality,  even  according  to  worldly  standards, 
as  to  bring  scandal  upon  us  and  expose  innocent 
women  connected  with  us  to  shocking  misinter 
pretation." 

"Scandal?"  She  leaned  far  forward;  this  was 
what  she  had  come  to  hear.  "Tell  me  was  there 
anything  really  immoral  about  Mr.  Senn's  life  up 
yonder  at  the  Home  on  the  Hill  with  Sister  Bere 
nice  and  Sister  Beulah  and  the  rest  ?" 

He  looked  down  upon  her  a  moment  without 
answering. 

"I'd  rather  not  discuss  such  things  with  you," 
he  said  slowly. 

In  the  dusk  her  face  flamed  red.  She  had 
never  been  struck  across  the  cheek,  but  she  could 
understand  now  how  one's  face  might  tingle  after 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  n 

such  a  blow.  But  by  profession,  as  well  as  tem 
perament,  she  was  a  good  fighter.  She  promptly 
struck  back. 

"I  thought  you  Renunciants  believed  that 
impurity  can  exist  only  where  the  intention  is  im 
pure,"  she  said  maliciously. 

"You  are  not  one  of  us,"  he  answered  unmoved, 
and  his  lack  of  resentment,  his  forbearance  made 
her  feel  that  perhaps  there  had  not  been  the  sting 
of  design  in  his  impugnment  of  her  taste.  "And 
your  tone  shows  that  you  have  no  respect  for  what 
we  believe — believed — no,  believe.1' 

In  her  surprise  she  dropped  a  pencil  with  which 
she  had  been  taking  sketch  notes  on  a  paper  pad, 
forgetting  personal  griefs  in  professional  interest 
in  this  peculiar  type. 

"Believe!"  she  exclaimed.  "Still?  .  .  . 
Still?" 

"Yes,  still."  He  shifted  his  body  but  he  met 
her  gaze.  "Because  Senn  has  proven  a  false 
prophet,  the  religion  he  preached  is  not  necessarily 
false.  My  belief  in  the  possibility  of  an  ideal 
community  life  is  not  shaken  by  the  fact  that 
this  one,  under  Senn's  guidance,  has  come  to 
grief." 

"You  are  optimistic,"  she  sneered  still  unfor 
giving.  "And  yet  Senn  is  a  drunkard  ?" 

"Yes." 


12  ANTHONY   OVERMAN 

"And  a  thief?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"And  a  libertine?" 

"It   is   all   true." 

"  But  it  does  not  affect  your  belief  in  the  cult 
he  preached — established — of  which  he  is  the 
author  ?" 

"May  I  ask,"  suddenly  he  bent  forward  looking 
at  her  intently,  "may  I  ask  why  you  want  to  know 
all  this?" 

She  laughed  within  herself  at  the  long-delayed 
question.  But  she  answered  with  a  pretense  of 
surprise,  an  affected  innocent  unconsciousness  of 
its  appositeness  that  was  disproportionately  art 
ful,  so  simple  he  seemed. 

"Why  certainly.  I  thought  you  knew.  I  am 
Miss  Incell,  Jessie  Incell  of  the  Inquirer,  and  the 
office  has  sent  me  up  here  to  get  to  the  bottom  of 
this  Renunciants  scandal." 

She  watched  the  effect  on  him  amusedly.  Her 
name,  familiar  to  newspaper  readers  throughout 
the  West,  evidently  made  no  impression  out  here 
under  the  great  oaks  and  pine.  Evidently  this 
man  had  not  heard  it  before.  But  he  realized 
that  he  had  answered  frankly  every  question  she 
had  put,  not  knowing  what  use  she  intended  to 
make  of  what  he  said,  and  he  turned  away  from 
her  with  a  child-like  movement,  as  though  phys- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  13 

ically  to  put  her  out  of  his  horizon  while  he  ad 
justed  his  mind  to  the  new  situation. 

As  for  her,  she  had  all  the  material  she 
needed.  She  sat  now  looking  at  him;  first  be 
cause  of  her  unquenchable  interest  in  human 
nature,  making  a  study  of  this  particular  speci 
men  for  her  own  gratification,  and  second  because 

O  7 

the  evening  was  beautifully  balmy,  and  it  was 
delightful,  to  one  who  had  spent  her  days  in  the 
close  rush  of  city  life,  to  be  out  here  in  the  soli 
tude  of  the  still  forest  beneath  the  great  black 
trees. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last  turning  again  to  her, 
"it  doesn't  make  any  difference.  I  don't  remember 
exactly  what  I've  said  to  you,  and  I  don't  care  to 
get  into  the  papers,  but  I  haven't  said  anything 
that  isn't  true." 

"I'm  sure  that  you  needn't  regret  anything 
you've  said.  And  I'm  really  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  I  wanted,  not  so  much  facts  from  you 
as — as  atmosphere,"  she  said  skilfully.  "Some 
thing,  you  know,  that  would  give  me  a  line  on 
Renunciants  in  general,  that  might  make  me 
comprehend  the  kind  of  people  who  could  go  into 
this  sort  of  thing,  make  me  sympathize  with  them, 
you  understand." 

He  put  his  arms  behind  him  now  and  looked 
smiling  down  upon  her. 


i4  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"You  wanted  to  try  to  get  inside  the  head  of  a 
crank,  is  that  it  ?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  up,  a  sweet  swift,  insincere  denial  on 
her  lips.  But  the  simple  candor  of  his  face 
and  his  words  had  its  effect  upon  a  nature  to 
which  formality  was  irksome. 

"Exactly,"  she  said  relieved. 

He  threw  back  his  head  then  and  laughed  aloud, 
and  she  laughed  with  him.  And  after  this  she 
dropped  the  character  she  had  assumed  as  a  dis 
guise  to  her  journalistic  designs  and  yielded  to  her 
curiosity  without  attempt  at  dissimulation. 

"Do  tell  me,"  she  asked,  leaning  forward,  her 
hands  loosely  clasped  about  her  knees,  "how  a  man 
like  you  came  to  join  a  humbug  like  Senn." 

"Does  it  strike  you  as  so  very  odd,"  he  de 
manded  gravely,  "that  a  fellow  should  have  an 
ideal  and  turn  his  back  on  conventional  ideas  for 
the  sake  of  it  ?" 

"It  does — very  much  so." 

"And  you  don't  believe  in  enthusiasms,"  he 
went  on  questioning  in  his  turn,  "in  self-sacrifice, 
in  betterment  of  the  world  by  means  of— 

"Of  high  thinking  and  low  living  on  the  Senn 
plan,"  she  interrupted. 

He  stood  a  moment  silently  looking  down  upon 
her. 

"I  think,"  he  said  slowly  after  a  moment,  "that 


ANTHONY    OVERMAN 

'Does  it  strike  you  as  so  very  odd,'  he  demanded  gravely,  'that  a  fellow 
should  have  an  ideal  and  turn  his  back  on  conventional  ideas  for  the  sake 
of  it?'  " 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  15 

you  either  are  not  quite  honest  or  not  quite  capable 
of  appreciating  this  question.  It  is  very  easy  to 
speak  cynically;  although,  to  be  frank  with  you,  I 
cannot  conceive  of  a  young  mind  without  aspira 
tions,  nor  can  I  find  anything  in  common  with  it. " 

She  smiled  to  herself  in  the  fast-gathering  dusk. 
Evidently,  she  said  to  herself,  she  was  being  dis 
approved  of. 

"Why  don't  you  convert  me  ?"  she  asked  gaily. 

"  I  doubt, "  he  said  severely,  "  I  doubt  my  power. 
But  more  than  this  I  distrust  the  shallows  of  a 
flippant  nature." 

She  laughed  aloud  in  sudden,  honest  enjoyment. 
It  was  a  good  laugh  to  hear,  girlish  and  hearty, 
with  a  chuckle  of  amusement  running  beneath 
it  that  gave  it  a  boyish  quality. 

'Then  I'm  not  worth  converting,  not  even  so 
much  so  as — the  lady  in  yonder?"  she  mocked, 
nodding  toward  the  cabin  before  her. 

"Hilma  Hulsberg  is  an  ignorant  Swedish  girl," 
he  answered  with  grave  rebuke.  "You  would  find 
her  English  very  diverting,  I've  no  doubt,  but  she 
is  capable  of  sincere  and  honest  faith  and  trust." 

"In  Senn?" 

"In  the  things  she  thought  Senn  represented, 
in  the  things  she  still  believes  exist  though  Senn 
is — all  you  said  he  is." 

"Then  will  you  explain  to  me,"  she  said  with 


16  ANTHONY   OVERMAN 

a  sexless  impersonality  in  discussing  sex  problems 
which  was  not  assumed,  "how  she  can  be  a  wife 
and  a  Renunciant,  too  ?  Marriage  is  forbidden 
by  an  article  in  your  faith,  isn't  it?" 

"Hilma  and  Donaghey  married,  according  to 
the  law  of  the  State,"  he  said  coldly,  "to  avert 
scandalous  misinterpretation  from  just  such  people 


"Myself,  you  were  going  to  say,"  she  con 
cluded  saucily. 

"But  they  are  not  man  and  wife,"  he  added. 

"Oh!" 

The  scornful  intonation  did  not  anger  him,  as 
she  had  hoped  it  would,  but  it  seemed  to  arouse 
his  combativeness. 

"Look  here,  I  don't  know  you  at  all  and  you 
don't  know  me,  and  we  are  not  likely  ever  to  see 
each  other  again.  You  think  me  a  crank  and  a 
fool  for  having  been  taken  in.  But  I  tell  you  it's 
no  harder  for  you  to  realize  that  a  man  can  be 
what  I  am  than  it  is  for  me  to  understand  how 
a  girl  can  be  like  —  you—  if  you're  sincere.  Don't 
you  believe  in  anything?" 

"Not  in  miracles,"  she  answered,  roused  herself 
now.  "I  know  something  of  human  nature  and 
I  know  it  isn't  going  to  be  changed  by  building  a 
community  house  on  the  top  of  a  hill  and  calling 
it  the  Home  of  Peace;  by  isolating  oneself  in  small 


ANTHONY   OVERMAN  17 

stone  houses  to  'meditate';  by  starving  one's  body 
of  meat  and  living  on  grain  and  guff;  trying,  in 
short,  to  lift  oneself  by  his  mental  and  moral 
boot-straps,  while  gravity  in  the  shape  of  sinful 
human  nature  forever  pulls  one  down.  You  see 
how  it  has  worked  with  your  New  Jerusalem. 
You  are  all  scattered,  bankrupt.  A  pious  old 
fraud  has  sucked  you  dry.  And  you're  not  the 
first  lot  he  has  wrecked.  I  don't  think  your 
gullibility  a  great  tribute  to  common  sense." 

She  was  playing  on  him  now,  on  his  patience,  on 
his  sincerity — if  he  was  really  sincere;  she  wasn't 
yet  sure  of  this. 

"You're  right — that  far,"  he  said  without  a 
shade  of  resentment.  "But  it  may  be  a  tribute 
to  something  more  precious  than  common  sense. 
I  am  older  than  you  and  I've  made  a  fool  of  my 
self.  I  have  worked  since  I  was  a  child  and  all  that 
I  had  in  the  world  this  man  Senn  has  got.  I  am,  as 
you  say,  sucked  dry,  and  can  get  nothing  back. 
And  I  see  the  pitiful  contemptible  figure  we  cut 
in  your  eyes — Donaghey,  poor  Hilma  and  myself, 
shipwrecked,  stranded  out  here  in  the  forest  with 
scarcely  enough  to  eat.  But  I  swear  to  you 
I'd  go  into  another  thing  again  that  promised 
what  this  did.  And  I'd  rather  be  a  fool  and  a 
crank  a  hundred  times  over  than  be  destitute 
of  hope  for  humanity,  than  be  content  with  the 


1 8  ANTHONY    OVERMAN 

best  the  world  has  succeeded  so  far  in  making  of 
life." 

"You  would!  You  would?"  she  cried  incred 
ulously. 

"I  was  looking  for  my  ideal,"  he  went  on,  as 
though  only  half  conscious  of  the  interruption, 
"when  I  heard  of  the  Renunciants,  and  I 
thought  I  had  found  it.  When  I  think  again  that 
there  is  hope  of  my  ideal  being  realized  I'll  try 
again — and  again." 

She  looked  up  at  him  curiously.  The  bonfire 
had  burned  down  and  he  stood  in  the  dusk,  his 
back  against  a  tree,  his  arms  crossed  easily  behind 
his  muscular  back,  his  short-bearded  chin  thrust 
aggressively  forward,  a  striking  figure  in  the  loose 
garments  he  wore,  having  a  strength  and  a  grace 
that  were  faun-like — the  unworldliness  of  his 
sentiments  harmonizing  effectively,  it  seemed  to 
her,  with  himself  and  his  surroundings.  The 
artistic  instinct  in  her  was  stirred  by  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  situation. 

"Do  you  care  to  tell  me,"  she  asked  puzzled, 
"just  what  practical  result  you  hoped  to  accom 
plish?" 

He  threw  out  his  hands. 

"Does  it  seem  ridiculous  to  you,"  he  demanded 
passionately,  "that  by  self-denial  and  bodily  and 
mental  discipline,  by  hard  work  and  simple  living 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  19 

that  one  may  make  a  better  man  of  himself — one 
who  had  been  a  wild  young  chap  without  home  or 
friends  ?  And  after  he  had  mastered  himself  and 
read  and  studied,  would  it  be  so  strange  if  he  could 
influence  and  strengthen  others  of  his  kind  ? 
People  who  live  close-packed  in  the  world — even 
girls  like  you — become  cynical  and  selfish  and 
low-aimed.  Is  it  so  absurd  that  by  setting  one's 
life  in  great  spaces,  by  being  always  face  to  face 
with  grandeur  and  beauty  like  this" — He  threw 
out  a  hand  toward  the  Sierras  snow-crested  and 
the  rushing  river  nearly  a  half  mile  below  them— 
"and  having  before  one  psychically  the  example, 
the  altruism  of  fine  souls,  living  and  dead,  and 
their  printed  words  to  add  to  the  delight  of  study- 
is  it  strange  that  the  satisfaction  of  self-mastery 
and  an  unquenchable  yearning  to  make  the  world 
a  better  place  to  live  in  should  follow  ?  Is  it  all 
a  mere  fad  of  vegetarianism  to  you,  a  bit  of  mys 
ticism,  and  a  queer  playing  with  dangerous  in 
stincts — our  conviction  that  imperfect  creatures 
should  refrain  from  giving  birth  to  others  as  im 
perfect  ?  Is  that  all  it  looks  to  you  ?  Is  it  possible  ?" 
She  looked  at  him  in  silence  as  he  stood  between 
her  and  the  roughly  built  old  cottage,  through 
whose  weather-beaten  sides  the  light  within  now 
shone.  And  her  eyes  wandered  from  the  speaking 
poverty  of  his  clothes  to  the  dirt  and  disorder  of  the 


20  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

hasty  squatter  settlement.  Then  she  shook  her 
self,  as  though  waking  from  a  wistful  dream,  and 
rose  suddenly. 

"You  have  been  very  kind,"  she  said  holding 
out  a  hand  with  a  boyish  sort  of  grace.  "I  don't 
understand  it  nor  you,  but  thank  you.  I  really 
forgot  that  I  was  interviewing." 

"So  did  I,"  he  said  shortly.  "It's  dark.  You 
won't  be  able  to  see  the  road.  Wait  a  minute  till 
I  light  a  lantern  and  walk  with  you  up  to  the 
hotel." 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late,"  she  began  vexed. 
"  But  I'm  not  afraid.  You  needn't  bother,  thanks, 
I'm  quite  accustomed  to  going  about  alone." 

"In  the  city,  perhaps.     It  isn't  safe  here." 

He  left  her  and  came  back  with  the  lantern — 
the  first  she  had  ever  used — and  they  walked  in 
silence,  save  for  his  directions  to  avoid  this  ob 
struction  or  that  on  the  dark  road,  toward  the 
village. 

Miss  Incell  was  glad  he  did  not  speak.  A 
hidden  strain  of  sentiment  in  her  responded  to  the 
novelty  of  the  walk.  The  sweet  scents  of  the 
country  after  nightfall,  the  dim  black  presence 
of  the  forest,  the  solemn  rushing  of  the  river,  and 
the  consciousness  of  the  watching  heights  of  the 
Sierras  up  among  the  stars  struck  a  chord  in  her 
that  seldom  vibrated. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  21 

But  by  the  time  she  had  reached  her  room  in  the 
primitive  little  hotel  and  got  out  her  paper  and 
pencils,  she  recognized  this  mood  only  for  the 
literary  value  it  might  have  in  making  her  "story" 
picturesque.  She  wrote  for  two  hours,  and  then 
went  over  to  the  telegraph  office  to  send  her 
account  and  the  following  message: 

"Dean  W.  Morgan,  Acting  City  Editor.  Am 
sending  2000  words  Renunciant  story.  Sketches 
by  mail.  Will  see  Senn  to-morrow  for  follow 
story.  Home  to-morrow  night.  Jessie  Incell." 

Miss  Incell  went  back  to  her  room,  ordered  a 
light  supper  sent  up  to  her,  undressed  and  went 
to  bed,  and  was  sound  asleep  before  Morgan, 
acting  city  editor,  had  filed  his  return  message, 
congratulating  her  on  the  journalistic  feat  she  had 
accomplished  to  the  glory  of  the  Inquirer  and  the 
confusion  of  its  rivals. 


CHAPTER   II 

TT'S  a  caprice  of  Nature's  to  leave  behind  her  the 
key  to  the  cipher  in  which  she  writes.  In  the 
shaping  of  the  highest  form  of  rudimentary  life 
to-day  she  unfolds  to  the  wise  and  watchful  the 
whole  history  of  development.  And  in  the  lifting 
of  the  haze  from  the  Sierras  in  the  early  morning 
after  Jessie  Incell  had  exposed  the  Community 
of  Renunciants,  she  lifted  the  same  veil  that 
hung  over  the  world  when  it  was  virgin  the  morning 
that  Creation  set  peaks  to  soaring,  rivers  to  rushing, 
trees  to  waving  sentient  green  arms  of  gladness, 
and  earth  to  sloping  down  to  flower-bordered  turf 
and  meadows. 

The  recreation  charmed  Miss  Incell.  She 
was  standing  beside  her  wheel  on  the  hill  whose 
summit  was  topped  by  the  deserted,  though  yet 
unfinished,  brick  home  of  the  Fraternity.  The 
site  is  a  marvelously  beautiful  one  and  Miss  Incell 
looked  across  from  it  to  the  very  tip  of  the  Sierras, 
deep  blue  now  with  the  haze  of  distant  forest  fires, 
and  down  to  the  pines  and  redwoods  from  which 
the  smoke  of  the  arriving  train  rose  in  fair  white 
clouds,  and  smiled  to  herself  in  sheer  content.  On 
that  train  were  bundles  and  bundles  of  morning 
papers;  chief  among  them  the  Inquirer  which 
was  presently  to  explode  its  bomb  of  publicity, 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  23 

manufactured  by  her  own  hands,  upon  the  un 
suspecting  town.  And  knowing  this,  she  had 
ordered  an  early  breakfast,  hired  a  wheel,  ridden 
up  to  the  Home  of  Peace  and  secured  her  interview 
with  the  leader  of  the  Fraternity,  before  he  could 
learn  in  what  terms  she  had  already  written  about 
him  and  the  flock  of  idealists  and  simpletons  he 
had  shorn  and  scandalized. 

She  had  got  a  good  interview — which  meant 
to  her  an  unconscious  self-revelation  of  its  subject 
which,  interpreted  with  a  spice  of  malice,  some 
humor  and  cleverness,  would  expose  the  farce 
played  up  here  among  the  everlasting  hills  and 
make  good  reading  apart  from  its  interest  as  a 
newsy,  human  story.  So  this  newspaperwoman 
had  a  delicious  sense  of  having  won  in  a  game  she 
had  played  single-handed;  her  wit  and  news 
paper  experience  and  professional  privileges  pitted 
against  the  combined  suspicion  and  antagonism 
of  the  religio-economic  community,  its  natural 
distaste  for  publicity,  and  the  real  weakness  and 
depravity  it  had  to  hide. 

Miss  Incell  chuckled  aloud  as  she  mounted  her 
wheel,  looking  back  for  a  moment  to  the  patri 
archal  saint  and  swindler  who  stood  in  the  door 
way  of  the  Home,  beaming  benevolently  down 
upon  her  in  the  belief — skilfully  fostered  by  her 
while  she  had  listened  to  him — that  he  had  com- 


24  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

pletely  put  his  inquisitor  off  the  track  and  in 
cidentally  made  a  pleasant  personal  impression 
upon  her;  a  not  unusual  experience  of  his  among 
women. 

But  this  particular  woman  rode  slowly  along 
the  driveway,  taking  mental  notes  of  Brother 
Abraham  at  the  milking,  Brother  Daniel  chasing 
an  unruly  cow,  seized  also  with  the  contagion  of 
rebellion,  Brother  Harvey  and  Brother  Justin 
working  among  the  olive  trees,  while  Sister 
Berenice  clattered  tins  in  the  kitchen  and  Sister 
Beulah  stopped  washing  windows  to  peer  through 
them  after  the  girl,  whose  irreverence  and  cynicism 
she  suspected,  with  the  intuitive  distrust  of  her  sex. 

Jessie  Incell  herself  had  a  delightful  sense  of 
being  a  sort  of  journalistic  Puck  to  whom  hidden 
things  are  visible.  She  saw  behind  the  apparent 
idyl  the  seamy  shame  of  selfish  purpose;  and  a 
non-human  spirit  of  mischief  which,  according 
to  her  philosophy,  was  the  recompense  and  ac 
companiment  of  being  a  spectator,  made  her  gloat 
over  this  satire  on  human  optimism  and  idealism. 

The  spokes  of  her  wheel  flew  faster  as  she 
turned  down  the  hill,  and  the  introduction  to  her 
character  study  of  Senn  began  to  weave  itself  in 
her  alert  and  practised  mind.  The  sensational 
journal  that  employed  her  believed  that  a  clever 
newspaper  woman  may  be  more  than  a  mere 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  25 

reportorial  retina,  and  Miss  Incell  consequently 
wrote  with  what  coloring  of  wit  or  satire  of  senti 
ment  best  pleased  her  and  suited  her  story.  Frag 
ments  of  description,  apt,  characterizing  adjec 
tives,  satirical  short  comments  in  parenthetical 
expression,  together  with  a  scheme  for  the  ma 
terial  presentation  of  the  article,  the  make-up  of 
type  and  sketches  into  an  attractive  first  page, 
began  to  take  shape  in  her  busy  brain.  She  had 
reached  the  top  of  a  bit  of  smooth  road  on  the 
down  grade.  The  morning  air  was  sweetly, 
purely  invigorating.  She  was  alone  to  enjoy  it, 
young,  buoyantly  healthy  and  full  of  self-content. 
Yielding  to  an  athletic  pleasure  in  exercise,  which 
she  could  not  often  indulge,  she  took  her  feet  from 
the  pedals  and  coasted  down  the  hill.  The  sensa 
tion  was  glorious,  she  felt  as  though  she  were  flying 
through  the  morning  up  here  above  the  black- 
green  tops  of  the  pines.  She  rode  skilfully,  her 
eye  was  steady  and  clear  and  her  seat  firm.  But 
what  she  could  not  take  into  consideration  was 
the  potential  frailties  of  a  bicycle  hired  in  a  small 
county  town,  where  the  pleasures  of  wheeling 
were  rarely  indulged  in  and  the  use  of  the  bicycle 
as  a  two-wheeled  horse  had  not  occurred  to  a 
primitive  population. 

Miss   Incell's  lithe  little  body  had  become  so 
thoroughly  a  partner  in  the  rapid  motion  that  she 


26  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

did  not  receive  the  full  force  of  the  shock  when 
the  tire  burst.  But  she  flew  over  the  handle  bars 
with  a  conviction,  humorous  as  it  was  instan 
taneous,  that  she  had  not  really  flown  before,  and 
she  came  to  earth  with  such  force  that  she  lost 
her  sense  of  humor  together  with  the  rest  of  her 
senses  and  waked  at  last,  after  the  first  fainting 
spell  she  had  had  in  her  short,  healthy  life,  to 
know  that  something  serious  had  befallen  her  left 
ankle. 

She  sat  up,  a  bit  giddy  then  but  thoroughly  her 
self,  and  looked  disgustedly  at  her  boot.  The 
wrecked  and  abandoned  wheel  lay  also  in  the  line 
of  her  vision  just  beyond,  but  all  her  indignation 
was  reserved  for  the  luckless  ankle  that  incapac 
itated  her.  She  had  the  perfectly  healthy  ani 
mal's  sense  of  impersonal  fury  at  the  unwarranted 
collapse  of  a  member.  She  regarded  that  awk 
wardly  outstretched,  throbbing  foot  with  the 
scornful  look  that  failure  merits.  She  hated  it 
for  a  coward  and  a  weakling.  It  was  her  nature, 
as  well  as  the  ethics  of  her  profession,  to  have  no 
mercy  upon  the  one  who  has  "fallen  down."  The 
detail  of  carrying  her  safely  through  her  enterprise 
had  been  partly  entrusted  to  that  same  stupid  foot, 
as  she  denominated  it;  and  for  no  reason,  some 
reason,  any  reason — the  terms  were  synonymous 
in  her  vocabulary — the  foot  had  failed.  She 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  27 

would  have  cut  it  off  and  thrown  it  from  her  if  she 
could,  without  a  qualm.  She  had  no  sense  of 
kinship  with  failures.  She  knew  no  excuse  for 
not  doing  not  only  what  is  expected  of  one,  but 
even  more  than  could  be  anticipated.  She  had 
a  feeling  of  alienation  from  the  unfit  member  and 
she  regarded  it  with  contempt  and  steady  dis 
approval  till,  perhaps  in  revenge,  it  began  to 
smart  and  burn  so  that  her  hot  hate  was  quenched 
in  tears. 

She  smiled  ruefully  through  a  mist,  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  unlaced  her  high  boot.  This  relieved 
her  and  she  leaned,  back  against  a  madrone  to 
think  the  thing  out.  After  all  it  wasn't  so  bad. 
She  had  the  whole  day  before  her.  Presently 
someone,  driving  along  the  road,  would  help  her 
into  town.  She  would  have  a  doctor  look  at  her 
ankle  and  patch  it  up  temporarily.  Then  she 
would  do  her  writing,  be  driven  to  the  train,  and 
reach  San  Francisco  early  next  morning  if  not 
late  that  night.  Though  she  planned  it  all 
successfully  she  did  not  look  upon  that  rascal  foot 
of  hers  with  any  less  severity.  It  was  not  the  foot's 
fault  that  she  had  not  been  crippled  and  her  whole 
story  spoiled.  It  was  only  her  own  quick  capacity 
of  adjustment  to  circumstances,  upon  which  she 
prided  herself,  and  her  forehandedness  in  getting 
up  so  early  that  had  saved  the  day. 


28  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

This  train  of  thought  led  her  straight  to  her 
reasons  for  early  rising,  and  her  eyes  began  to 
twinkle.  She  took  out  a  paper  pad  and  pencil  and 
penknife  and  sharpened  a  new  point  before  she 
began  to  touch  up  her  sketch  of  Senn.  She 
sketched  crudely  but  had  a  happy  knack  of  getting 
the  tone  of  a  face,  its  significance,  the  expression 
that  lay  behind  the  features,  and  this  gift  together 
with  her  newspaper  instinct  for  striking  poses  and 
a  faculty  of  description  and  mimicry  made  it  easy 
for  a  good  draughtsman  to  complete  her  sketches  in 
the  spirit  in  which  they  were  conceived. 

In  the  illustration  which  now  grew  under  her 
hand,  Miss  Incell  had  caught  the  expression  of 
mingled  cunning  and  piety  that  marks  the  religious 
hypocrite.  She  only  indicated  the  long  white 
flowing  beard,  the  white  curls  and  bald  fore 
head,  and  with  business-like  notes  in  a  quick, 
round  hand  she  described  the  easy  though  watch 
ful  pose  her  subject  had  assumed  when,  slippered 
and  suspendered  in  his  soft  silk  shirt,  this  latest  of 
semi-Messiahs,  semi-promoters — had  sat  opposite 
her,  rocking  gently  as  he  answered  her  questions. 

The  sound  of  approaching  carriage  wheels 
interrupted  her  contemplation  of  her  work  (she 
was  considering  it  with  a  critical,  loving,  malicious 
smile)  and  she  pulled  herself  to  her  only  remaining 
foot  that  seemed  to  have  a  conscience,  and  gave 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  29 

tongue  to  a  halloo  that  was  quickly  stifled.  For  it 
was  the  subject  of  her  sketch  in  person  who  was 
driving  by  on  his  way  to  town.  For  just  a  second, 
though  Jessie  Incell  had  a  vision,  which  nearly 
convulsed  her,  of  herself  riding  into  town  beside 
the  man  whom  she  had  made  odious  in  the  eyes 
of  his  whole  little  world,  which  must  have  already 
read  the  Inquirers  expose  of  him,  his  methods 
and  morals.  The  mischievous  instinct  in  her 
was  sorely  tempted  but  another  instinct,  deeper 
rooted  and  more  significant  of  her  real  self,  made 
contact  with  the  venerable-appearing  old  satyr 
abhorrent  to  her.  A  peculiar  quality  in  this  girl's 
nature,  which  had  been  emphasized  by  her  work, 
permitted  Miss  Incell  to  seek  this  man  out  and 
listen  impersonally  to  his  self-revelation  of  an 
impure  mind  and  the  hypocritical  pretense  with 
which  he  sought  to  cover  it.  But  the  thought  of 

o  o 

voluntary  acquaintance  with  Senn  was  loathsome 
to  her,  and  she  dropped  back  in  the  shadow  of  the 
madrone  while  he  drove  by,  as  unconscious  of  her 
presence  as  he  was  of  the  storm  of  obloquy  about 
to  engulf  and  overthrow  him. 

The  hours  were  long  for  the  Inquirer  s  star 
reporter  after  this.  The  sun  rose  high  and  higher 
and  in  all  the  broad,  peaceful  landscape  from  the 
glittering  ice  cones  of  the  Sierras  to  the  crimsoned 
leaf  of  the  poison  oak  garlanded  from  tree  to  tree, 


30  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

nothing  moved.  She  heard  no  sound  save  the 
distant  clang  of  a  cow  bell,  the  deadened  rush  of 
the  river  far  off,  or  the  quickly  throttled  shriek  of 
an  engine's  whistle  as  a  train  plunged  up  through 
the  mountains  or  down  toward  the  bay.  She  had 
covered  every  scrap  of  paper  she  had  with  notes  and 
detached  bits  of  the  story  she  meant  to  write,  but 
irritated  at  last  by  the  impossibility  of  getting  it 
into  shape  on  the  single  small  pad  she  had  taken 
with  her,  she  stuffed  all  the  fragments  into  her 
side  satchel  and  with  heroic  resolution  she  stood 
upright,  reached  for  the  tough  limb  of  the  madrone 
under  which  she  had  fallen,  hacked  and  cut  with 
her  small  penknife  till  she  had  detached  it  from 
its  gorgeously  red  trunk  and  made  herself  a  cane. 
With  this  she  hobbled  forward  and  downward 
toward  town.  And  she  continued  determinedly 
on  her  way,  long  after  the  burning  pain  in  her 
wrenched  and  twisted  bones  cried  out  against  the 
jarring  her  erratic  gait  necessitated.  But  she 
yielded  at  last  when  the  road  began  to  mount 
again  and,  weak  from  suffering,  sank  down  in  a 
bed  of  rustling  leaves  under  a  straggling  oak  that 
had  rooted  itself  in  a  cup-like  dip  between  two 
softly  rounded,  low  hills.  Her  suffering  made 
her  forget  the  unforgivable  sin  of  which  her  foot 
had  been  guilty  and,  throwing  aside  her  shoe,  she 
nursed  the  stricken  member  tenderly,  trying  to 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  31 

rub  down  the  inflammation  that  had  swollen  it  so  out 
of  shape  that  she  could  not  put  on  the  shoe  again. 
It  had  grown  very  warm  and  the  exertion  re 
quired  by  her  crippled  condition  had  exhausted 
her.  She  was  a.  bit  nauseated  from  hunger  as 
well  as  pain,  and  she  lay  back  disheartened  and 
almost  indifferent*  to  anything  but  the  prospect  of 
lying  still.  The  haze  of  noon  covered  the  warm 
earth  and  the  sun  beat  on  the  shining  white  caps  on 
the  great  mountains  as  though  to  dissolve  them 
into  one  blinding  beam  of  light.  Gradually  as 
she  lay  there,  the  pain  in  Miss  Incell's  ankle 
seemed  to  become  dulled;  the  cowbells  sounded 
farther  ofF  and  came  less  and  less  frequently. 
And  presently — so  different  was  the  situation 
from  any  that  she  had  known,  so  strangely  effec 
tive  was  it  in  revealing  to  her  another  self  than  the 
one  she  recognized  and  authorized — she  began  to 
tell  herself  how  good  it  is  to  lie  close,  close  to  earth, 
steeped  in  sunshine,  in  heat,  in  quiet;  to  forget 
restlessness  and  ambition  and  suffering  and  hap 
piness;  to  lose  consciousness,  to  know  no  sense  of 
responsibility,  or  of  failure,  or  success,  or  kinship 
except  to  the  great,  quiet,  slumbrous  breast  of 
Nature;  to  feel  only — and  this  with  exquisite, 
permeating  keenness — th.e  conviction  of  one's 
earthiness,  of  the  nearness  of  one's  absorption  into 
clean,  insensitive  earth  and  nothingness. 


CHAPTER   III 

A  N  HOUR  later,  Anthony  Overman  walking 
along  beside  the  docile  old  horse  he  was  taking 
back  to  its  owner,  found  the  metropolitan  journalist 
lying  asleep.  After  an  unbelieving  start  at  his  odd 
discovery  he  recognized  her,  for  the  little  town  could 
hold  but  one  woman  so  smartly  yet  mannishly 
gowned,  so  obviously  an  urban  product. 

While  he  stood  idly  looking  down  upon  her, 
the  patient,  spotted  white  horse  cropped  the  grass 
on  the  roadside.  Time  meant  no  more  to  old 
Graylock,  Little  Gap's  one  horse  for  hire,  than  it 
did  to  the  disillusioned  Renunciants  paralyzed 
momentarily  by  the  crashing  of  their  world  and 
the  necessity  of  immediately  making  another. 

There  was  a  smile  beneath  Overman's  mustache 
and  the  tip  of  his  short,  untrimmed  beard  twitched 
humorously.  In  his  self-centred  earnestness  the 
night  before  he  had  not  really  considered  what 
manner  of  young  woman  it  was  who  had  fallen 
down  from  the  skies  to  question  him  lightly  about 
the  subjects  of  which  he  had  thought  most  deeply. 
But  to-day,  out  here  inthebroadlightof  afternoon, 
there  was  something  grotesquely  idyllic  about  his 
discovery,  something  absurdly  at  variance  in  the 
rather  pathetic,  helpless,  relaxed  little  figure  and 
the  sturdy  assertiveness  of  her  cynical,  up-to-date 

3* 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  33 

self  of  the  night  before.  She  had  taken  off  her 
jaunty  little  hat  with  its  cocked  feather,  her  brown, 
tumbled  head  was  pillowed  on  her  arm,  her  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  her  girlish  lips  apart,  and  her 
frank,  mocking,  boyish  eyes  were  hidden.  She 
looked  such  a  little  thing  in  her  short  golf  skirt, 
such  a  child  of  a  woman  as  she  lay  there  that 
she  appealed  to  that  sense  of  protectiveness,  which 
is  the  first  sense  awakened  in  man  by  woman, 
however  the  second  may  differ  from  it. 

But  the  light  of  amusement  had  not  yet  died 
out  of  his  eye  when  she  waked.  She  sat  up  sud 
denly,  blinking  indignantly  at  a  world  that  had 
surprised  her  off  guard,  catching  with  char 
acteristic  quickness  the  atmosphere  of  gentle  ridi 
cule  with  which  the  lurking  smile  of  the  one  spec 
tator  enwrapped  her,  and  resenting  it. 

She  sprang  to  her.  feet,,  forgetting  that  one  of 
them  was  no  longer  fit  for  service. 

"Ouch!"  she  cried  and  sank  back  sick  with 
pain. 

"You  are  hurt — I  thought  you  were  asleep," 
Overman  cried  dropping  down  beside  her. 

She  looked  up  then  recognizing  his  voice. 

"Oh,,  it's — it's — I  remember  your  name,"  she 
groaned,  "but  !  can't  think  of  anything  but  t'he 
smashed  bones  in  this  ankle  of  mine.  Plague  it, 
it  hurts  me  so!" 


34  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

He  looked  down  upon  the  swollen  stockinged 
foot  she  was  trying  to  hide  under  her  short  skirt. 

"That  must  be  painful,"  he  said  sympathet 
ically,  and  in  her  weakness  his  tone  brought  tears 
to  her  eyes.  "You  must  let  me  help  you.  I'll 
carry  you  out  to  the  road  and  put  you  on  old 
Graylock  and  then  we'll  travel  back  to  town  to 
get  the  doctor. " 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  with  an 
almost  imperceptible  gesture  checking  the  move 
he  made  toward  carrying  out  his  words.  "I  can 
walk — or  rather  hobble  a  few  steps  if  you'll  hand 
me  the  madrone  crutch  yonder  that  I  cut." 

But  he  did  not  obey  her,  he  got  to  his  feet  and 
stood  looking  resentfully  down  upon  her. 

"Who  would  have  thought  a  girl  like  you  could 
be  a  prude!"  he  said  critically. 

"  I'm  not  a  prude.  But  I — hate  a  man  to  touch 
me,"  she  flashed  back  at  him,  in  her  haste  to  repel 
the  insinuation,  saying  more  than  she  wished  to 
say.  And  repenting  both  her  r'efusal  of  assistance 
and  the  reason  she  had  inadvertently  given,  she 
added,  "Oh,  I  know  how  silly  I  am  and,  if  you'll 
pardon  me,  I'll  be  very  grateful  for  your  help, 
Mr.  Overman." 

He  did  not  answer  but  took  her  in  his  arms  in  a 
business-like  way,  as  though  she  were  merely  a 
bundle  and  so  small  a  one  as  not  to  require  much 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  35 

attention.  He  set  her  on  the  horse,  turned  the 
animal's  benevolent,  long  white  face  toward  town 
and  was  starting  off  when  she  cried,  "I  must  have 
my  hat,  please,  and  my  shoe." 

He  brought  them  to  her,  one  in  either  hand,  as 
she  sat  perched  uneasily  upon  the  mild,  old  beast 
whose  neck  she  feared  to  slide  down,  as  he  inno 
cently  cropped  the  grass.  And  the  incongruity 
of  her  modish,  feminine  apparel  contrasted  with 
the  straight  lines  of  this  man's  primitively  simple 
dress  brought  the  light  of  a  laugh  to  her  eye. 

"A  woman  never  knows  how  funny  she  and  her 
belongings  are,"  she  said,  "till  she  looks  at  both 
from  a  man's  point  of  view.  Aren't  we  compli 
cating  things,  we  women  ?  How  in  the  world 
did  you  get  the  feminine  side  of  the  Fraternity 
to  put  aside  gewgaws  and  do  the  simplicity 
business  ?" 

'They  were  mainly  poor  women,  you  know,'* 
he  answered,  turning  the  horse's  head  down  hill, 
"with  not  many  gewgaws  to  put  aside." 

"I  know,  but  a  half-naked  beggar  will  fish  a 
dirty  ribbon  out  of  an  ash-barrel  to  ornament 
himself,  if  he  happens  to  be  a  she.  And  really  I 
can  sympathize  with  her.  Men  can  go  back  to 
simplicity  and  not  have  their  ugliness  jump  to  the 
eyes,  if  they  have  only  the  usual  number  of  legs 
and  arms  and  the  ordinary  arrangement  of  feat- 


36  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

ures.  But  we  women  are  such  striking  guys  with 
out  our  little  first  aids  to  the  ugly.  .  .  Oh,  Mr»— 
Mr.  Overman,  my  ankle  hurts  me  so  I  shall  scream 
if  I  have  to  let  my  foot  hang  down  any  longer!" 

He  looked  into  her  face — he  was  very  tall  and 
her  tearful,  angry  eyes  as  she  sat  upon  Graylock's 
slippery  back  were  almost  on  a  level  with  his. 

"Why  in  the  world,"  he  demanded  with  some 
perplexity,  "didn't  you  say  so  before?" 

"Because,"  she  answered  impatiently,  "nat 
urally  I  hoped  by  talking  a  lot  of  nonsense  fast  I 
could  forget  it,  of  course." 

He  lifted  her  then  and  set  her  down  again  in 
side-saddle  fashion,  with  the  injured  foot  lying 
across  her  knee.  And  she  rode  on  in  silence  till 
they  came  to  the  top  of  the  declivity  that  becomes 
the  main  street  of  the  village  farther  down.  Then 

O 

he  put  his  arm  about  her,  walking  close  beside  old 
Graylock,  and  she  thanked  him  humbly  and 
leaned  more  and  more  upon  the  support  his  lean 
strength  gave. 

As  he  noticed  her  growing  pallor  and  the  lines 
of  pain  about  her  lips,  he  tried  to  divert  her  by 
telling  her  of  the  humorous  side  of  community 
life.  He  concluded  with  the  story  of  the  wealthy 
widow  from  Boston  who  came  three  thousand 
miles  to  join  the  colony;  who  subscribed  to  all  the 
rules  and  agreed  to  hand  over  all  her  property  to 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  37 

Messiah  Senn  and  never  to  appeal  to  the  courts  to 
recover  it,  and  yet  revolted  when  it  came  to  sac 
rificing  the  black  bead  chain  she  wore  about  her 
scrawny  neck. 

But  Miss  Incell  could  scarcely  listen  and  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  twitched  with  agony,  though 
she  was  biting  her  lip  with  determination  not  to 
cry  out. 

He  carried  her  half-fainting  into  the  little  house 
in  the  clearing  when  they  reached  it.  She  had 
insisted  till  then  that  she  must  be  taken  up  to  the 
village  to  her  hotel,  but  she  looked  up  at  him 
gratefully  when  he  deposited  her  on  a  chintz- 
covered  lounge  in  the  Swedish  woman's  half- 
naked  parlor,  before  she  closed  her  lids  from 
which  the  slow  tears  of  agony  were  forcing  their 
way  down  her  cheeks. 

Overman  brought  the  one  village  surgeon  back 
to  see  her.  He  was  an  irregular  practitioner, 
graduate  of  no  school,  a  nervous,  bilious  little 
bald-headed  man,  delighted  with  the  publicity 
to  be  gained  by  attending  a  patient  whose  name 
was  so  well  known.  But  he  was  not  conscienceless 
and  after  cutting  away  her  stocking  and  setting 
the  misplaced  bones  as  well  as  he  could,  he  advised 
Miss  Incell  to  notify  her  family  and  her  own  phy 
sician. 

"You  take  it  for  granted  that  no  well-regulated 


38  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

female  is  without  both,"  she  exclaimed  pulling 
herself  upright  to  face  him.  Two  red  spots  of 
pain  and  fever  glowed  in  her  cheeks.  ''Well,  I 
haven't  either.  But  it  doesn't  make  any  difference 
so  far  as  this  beastly  little  ankle  of  mine  is  con 
cerned,  for  I'm  going  back  on  to-night's  train,  the 
10:15.  But  before  that,  if  you'll  leave  something 
for  me  to  pour  on  this  nasty  egotistical  foot  of  mine 
to  keep  it  from  throbbing  itself  to  the  centre  of  the 
stage,  I'll  do  some  work  I've  got  to  do." 

"My  dear  young  lady!" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head,  demurred,  admired 
and  assented  all  in  one  breath,  but  compromised 
finally  by  leaving  a  prescription  and  the  assurance 
that  he  would  call  again  at  dusk. 

Overman  went  with  him  up  to  the  village  and 
came  back  with  the  prescription  filled.  The 
Swedish  girl  had  removed  Miss  Incell's  jacket, 
piled  some  pillows  behind  her  and  thrown  a 
coverlet  over  the  injured  foot,  and  had  served  her 
tea  in  a  cup  so  heavy  that  the  nervous  girl's  hand 
shook  as  she  held  it  to  her  lips. 

She  put  the  cup  and  the  tray  from  her  and  held 
out  her  hand  as  Overman  entered,  taking  not  the 
medicine  but  his  long,  rough  hand  cordially  in 
both  of  hers. 

"I'm  a  test  of  your  altruism,"  she  cried  gaily. 
"You  are  so  good  to  me.  Who  would  have 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  39 

thought  when  I  was  pestering  you  with  questions 
last  night  that  you'd  have  me  on  your  conscience 
to-day,  too  ?" 

"We  don't  mind — do  we,  Hilma?"  he  said 
turning  with  a  smile  toward  the  Swedish  girl,  "if 
Miss  Incell  will  put  up  with  this  rough  place." 

"That  is  what  I  to  her  have  been  saying,"  said 
Hilma  in  the  softest  shattered  English. 

"Put  up  with  it!"  repeated  Miss  Incell  re 
proachfully.  "You  make  me  ashamed.  I  know 
how  greatly  I  must  inconvenience  you  people, 
Mrs.— Mrs.- 

" Hilma,"    said    the    girl    simply. 

"Mrs.  Hilma  then.  But  please  don't  let 
me  be  a  greater  nuisance  than  is  absolutely 
necessary,"  she  concluded  as  she  took  the  pack 
age  of  paper  and  the  lotion  which  Overman  had 
brought. 

"Hadn't  you  better  let  your  work  go,"  he 
suggested  diffidently,  "and  let  me  telegraph  to 
your  paper  ?" 

"Not  much!"  she  answered  promptly.  "I've 
got  an  awfully  good  story  and  it's  got  to  go.  I'll 
cut  it  short,  though,  and  get  it  done,  for  that  foot 
of  mine  will  make  me  dance  before  long." 

So  Overman  left  her  and  the  Swedish  girl 
placed  the  lap-board  she  used  for  sewing  over 
Miss  Incell's  knees,  tiptoeing  then  from  the  room. 


40  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

For  a  couple  of  hours  after  that  Jessie  Incell  wrote 
steadily,  stopping  only  now  and  then  to  pour  some 
of  the  soothing  liniment  on  her  bandaged  foot. 
But  when  Overman  came  into  the  room  at  dusk, 
she  was  lying  back  exhausted,  grinding  her  teeth 
with  pain.  He  took  the  bundle  of  paper  from  her, 
listened  attentively  to  her  instructions,  which  he 
carried  out  at  the  telegraph  office  before  he  sought 
the  village  doctor. 

Doctor  Purcey's  headquarters  were  in  the  gro 
cery  store  (which  was  all  the  saloon  the  town  could 
boast)  and  here  he  was  holding  forth  to  an  in 
terested  audience  on  the  subject  of  Jessie  Incell 
and  the  accident  she  had  met  with.  As  he  talked 
the  farmers  looked  from  the  sensational  printed 
page  in  their  hands  with  her  name  in  inch-long 
black  capitals  at  its  top,  to  the  doctor's  eager  face, 
and  their  wondering  admiration  for  the  first  seemed 
to  shed  some  lustre  on  the  second.  In  spite  of 
this,  Doctor  Purcey  accompanied  Overman  to 
the  cottage  in  the  clearing  and  found,  to  his  alarm, 
that  his  distinguished  patient  was  hot  with  fever 
and  writhing  in  pain.  Miss  Incell  sent  Overman 
from  the  room. 

"I  don't  mind  squealing  before  the  doctor," 
she  said  with  stern  facetiousness.  "It's  his  busi 
ness  to  see  people  squirm,  but  it  shames  me  to 
make  a  baby  of  myself  before  you,  and  Lord 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  41 

knows  just  now  I  feel  like  being  the  biggest  baby 
a  coward  girl  can  be." 

But  when  her  foot  had  been  rebandaged  and 
the  pain  was  quieted,  she  called  for  Hilma. 

"I  want  a  carriage,"  she  said,  "to  take  me  to 
the  station.  And  if  you'll  come  down  to  the  city 
with  me — Oh,  do  come  as  my  guest,"  she  added 
as  the  Swedish  girl  shook  her  head  timidly,  "and 
like  the  good  Samaritan  you  are,  help  me  to  get 
home.  I  never  can  be  thankful  enough  to  you 
for  your  care,  you  nice  little  Mrs.  Hilma.  Say, 
can't  you  come  down  with  me  ?  These  men  of 
yours  seem  pretty  well  able  to  take  care  of  them 
selves.  I'll  show  you  the  town  as  soon  as  I'm 
well  enough  and  it'll  be  rather  a  lark  for  us  both. 
I  wish  you'd  come." 

The  Swedish  girl  looked  dazedly  from  his 
patient  to  the  doctor,  seeking  words  of  caution, 
deprecation  and  gratitude. 

"No,  no,  my  dear  young  lady,"  interposed 
Doctor  Purcey,  shutting  his  rusty  black  surgical 
case  with  extreme  care.  "  Be  reasonable  and  stay 
if  only » 

"I  can't— I  won't!" 

"You — but  you  must,  my  dear  young  lady. 
To  be  frank,  I  fear  serious  complications  and  with 
your  permission  will  telegraph  to  the  city,  for 
your  physician,  or  some  specialist.  I  dare  not 


42  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

let  you  move  even  to  the  hotel.  You  simply  cannot 
leave  till  some  higher  authority  than  mine  permits 
it.  Now,  if  Baumfelder  could  see  you."  The 
little  village  doctor  had  cherished  a  hope  all  his 
life  that  some  miracle  might  bring  him  into  pro 
fessional  contact  with  the  great  city  surgeon. 
"But  till  he  does — no,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Incell, 
you  can't  go.  It  might  cripple  you  for  life." 

"Oh — damn!"  sobbed  Miss  Incell  turning  her 
face  to  the  wall. 

Which  eloquent  comment  and  its  every  attend 
ant  circumstance,  Doctor  Purcey  related  in  detail 
at  the  grocery,  to  the  edification  of  all  Little  Gap. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TN  ALL  her  life  which,  though  not  very 
long,  had  been  one  of  varied  experiences, 
Jessie  Incell  had  never  known  a  sleepless  night 
of  pain.  She  waked,  after  the  last  of  a  series 
of  half-delirious  nightmares  in  which  the  occur 
rences  of  the  past  two  days  played  a  distorted 
part,  (the  demon  of  bad  dreams  having  bewitched 
even  her  consciousness  of  success  into  black, 
hopeless  failure)  to  hardly  recognize  herself  in  the 
weak,  half-hysterical  woman  who  welcomed  the 
Swedish  girl's  solicitude  with  a  passionate  grati 
tude,  as  disproportionate  as  was  her  sense  of  for- 
lornness  and  discomfoit. 

And  this  feeling  was  intensified — though  she 
was  hardly  conscious  of  it — by  her  disappointment 
when  she  learned  that  Overman,  who  had  found 
work  on  a  neighboring  farm,  had  left  the  cottage 
with  Donaghey  before  her  waking.  She  wanted 
to  talk  of  herself,  to  analyze  aloud  the  sensations 
that  surprised  and  interested  her.  She  wanted  to 
ridicule,  before  a  sympathetic  and  intelligently 
appreciative  listener,  the  childish  lack  of  propor 
tion  with  which  even  a  short  illness  affects  one's 
point  of  view.  And  she  preferred  Overman  to  be 
that  listener,  for  a  certain  largeness  and  steadiness 
of  poise  in  him  soothed  and  rested  her. 

43 


44  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Conversation  with  the  Swedish  girl  was  out  of 
the  question.  She  waited  upon  her  guest  with  a 
careful,  almost-childish  humility.  Clearly  she 
regarded  Miss  Incell  as  a  quite  wonderful  being 
of  altogether  another  sphere  than  her  own,  of  an 
audacious  third  sort  of  sex  that  was  privileged  and 
peculiar,  and  her  slow,  swreet  imperfect  English 
became  unintelligible  in  her  confusion  when  any 
topic  but  the  simplest,  and  most  pertinent  was 
broached. 

In  despair  then  Miss  Incell  called  for  the  papers. 
She  had  never  been  without  the  news  two  days  in 
succession  since  she  became  a  journalist.  But  in 
despair  which  shamed  her  own,  Hilma  revealed 
the  almost  incredible  fact  that  there  was  not  a 
newspaper  in  the  house. 

"Yet  Will  shall  to  you  one  bring  when  he  home 
comes,"  Hilma  promised  softly. 

She  stepped  with  a  soft  lightness  that  had  some 
thing  birdlike  and  yet  very  womanly  about  it.  In 
the  clear  blondness  of  her  frank  face  there  shone 
a  deprecating  joy,  as  she  moved  busily  about  the 
bare  place,  as  though,  Miss  Incell  said  to  herself, 
she  were  avowing  her  happiness  and  declaring 
her  unworthiness  in  the  same  passionately  glad 
breath. 

The  newspaperwoman  watcheu  her  with  interest. 
The  domestic  side  of  life  wTas  rather  out  of  her  line 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  45 

of  vision,  as  an  observer  of  freakish  human  nature. 
By  trade,  Jessie  Incell  was  a  student  of  the  un 
usual  in  humanity,  and  the  sweet  homeliness  of 
the  ordinary  was  one  of  the  marvels  her  mind  had 
not  dwelt  upon  and  her  pen  had  not  chronicled. 

Long  before  the  doctor  came,  though,  the  ego 
tism  of  suffering  had  turned  her  thoughts  back  upon 
herself.  She  writhed  in  pain,  as  she  lay  alone, 
and  in  the  intervals  when  the  pain  was  not  so 
intense,  she  lost  confidence  and  began  to  question 
her  judgment  in  dealing  with  the  facts  of  her 
story  as  she  had.  Ordinarily  she  was  not  afflicted 
with  that  doubting  reaction  that  follows  upon 
creation.  In  a  sense  her  work  was  creation,  for 
she  saw  her  subject  vividly,  considered  it  imagina 
tively  as  well  as  practically,  and  treated  it  with 
some  artistic  skill.  Usually  she  finished  her 
articles  with  a  comfortable  sense  of  justified  fatigue 
and  a  comforting  feeling  of  success.  In  the 
morning,  the  Inquirer  usually  confirmed  her 
impression  that  she  had  handled  the  matter  in 
hand  in  a  workmanlike  way,  and  experience  told 
her  this  was  enough  to  demand  from  oneself. 

Pompous  little  Doctor  Purcey  found  her  in  a 
state  of  nervous  impatience  and  irritation  which, 
had  he  known  the  ordinary  equable  course  of  her 
disposition,  might  have  told  him  much  about  his 
patient's  condition.  By  the  dull,  though,  every- 


46  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

thing  incomprehensible  in  the  more  gifted  is  attrib 
uted  to  that  hopelessly  erratic  quality,  which  is 
supposed  to  accompany  talent.  The  physician 
examined  the  swollen,  discolored  ankle  with  a 
respect  which  he  might  have  given  to  something 
declared  a  work  of  art  by  one  in  authority.  He 
knew  enough  to  be  dissatisfied  with  his  patient's 
progress,  but  he  had  the  old-time  physician's 
disinclination  to  reveal  his  real  condition  to  the 
suffering  layman,  and  took  refuge  from  Miss 
Incell's  clear  questioning  in  a  maze  of  non- 
commital  technicalities  that  baffled  and  exasper 
ated  her. 

He  left  her  feverishly  distrustful  of  his  ability; 
of  his  lack  of  commonsense  her  quick  reading  of 
his  character  had  left  her  no  doubt.  So  she 
groaned  and  fretted  and  dozed  and  dreamed  the 
afternoon  through.  She  was  used  to  busy  days 
and  companionable  mates.  Her  mind,  though 
not  deep,  was  broad,  and  she  was  accustomed  to 
feed  it  on  a  variety  of  subjects  discussed  from  all 
points  of  view  with  the  men  at  the  office.  But 
there  was  not  a  line  of  reading  matter  in  this 
small  house,  and  her  easily-discouraged  effort 
to  use  the  doctor  as  a  messenger  to  the  book 
store  had  brought  upon  her  a  wordy  discourse 
on  literature  in  general  and  fiction  in  partic 
ular,  which  was  intended  only  to  display  his 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  47 

own  familiarity  with  the  subject  for  her  admiring 
approval. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  deliverance  from  mortal 
boredom  that  she  heard  the  back  door  close  that 
evening  when  the  men  of  the  household  came  home 
from  work.  It  was  after  supper  when  Overman 
came  in  to  her.  She  sat  up  looking  her  welcome, 
when  behind  his  back  her  quick  eye  caught  the 
silent  handclasp  between  Hilma  and  Donaghey, 
a  handclasp  so  eager  and  so  surreptitious  that  it 
had  all  the  strength  of  a  caress.  The  sight  ap 
pealed  to  Jessie's  sense  of  humor,  but  it  also  struck 
a  chord  that  was  tenderly  susceptible  in  her  de 
pressed  state,  and  she  put  up  a  hot  hand  to  meet 
Overman's  with  an  unconscious  simulation  of 
Hilma's  gesture.  He  took  it  with  a  movement 
provokingly  unlike  the  Irishman's;  it  was  so 
fatherly  and  yet  so  queerly  childlike.  And  he 
gave  his  attention  to  the  qualities  of  the  hand 
instead  of  the  handclasp. 

"You  are  feverish,  Miss  Incell,  your  hand  is 
very  hot.  Have  you  had  a  hard  day  ?"  he  asked, 
drawing  up  the  chair  that  had  not  been  occupied 
since  the  little  doctor  had  left  it. 

"I've  been  in—  '  she  began,  but  stopped;  the 
reportorial  use  of  strong  language,  she  knew,  was 
hardly  as  appropriate  in  speech  as  it  might  be 
mentally — "in  misery  all  day.  Your  Hilma — 


48  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

or  rather,  Mr.  Donaghey's  Hilma,"  she  added 
mischievously,  "is  a  jewel  among  women.  She 
is  patience  and  kindness  incarnate,  but  she  is  not 
a  conversationalist  and  in  the  intervals  when  I 
have  not  longed  to  scream,  I  have  been  pining  to 
talk.  Dr.  Purcey  came  and  talked  himself, 
instead  of  listening  to  me.  Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Overman,  I  have  a  conviction  that  he  is  guilty  of 
some  stupid  malpractice  on  that  unspeakable  foot 
of  mine  that  may  be  more  serious  than  the  original 
injury  ?  After  he  left  I  undid  all  his  bandages, 
made  Hilma  throw  his  herb  decoction  out  of  the 
window,  and  if  he  only  knew  how  my  foot  has  kept 
me  jumping  with  pain  since  then,  he'd  be  revenged 
I  think." 

"  Does  it  hurt  you  now  ?"  he  asked  solicitously. 
He  had  been  watching  her  curiously  as  she  spoke. 

"Not  when  people  talk  to  me  and  entertain  me. " 

He  laughed.  "All  right,  so  far  as  I  can.  But 
what  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"Just  to  wait  and  try  to  keep  sane  till  Baum- 
felder  arrives,  the  great  Baumfelder,  you  know. 
I've  met  him  and  he  has  some  sense  even  if  he  is  a 
doctor.  The  office  is  sending  him  up  to  take 
care  of  me.  He'll  tell  me  whether  there's  any 
thing  serious  in  this  thing  or  not  .  .  .  Do  you 
know,  Mr.  Overman,"  she  said  breaking  off 
suddenly,  "it's  a  sacred  newspaper  custom  to  tell 


49 

all  you  know  when  you  come  back  from  a  detail. 
What's  the  news — about  yourself  and  Renunci- 
ants  in  general  ?" 

He  laughed  again.  There  certainly  was  a 
charm  about  so  refreshing  and  unconventional 
a  young  woman. 

"Nothing  much.  There's  nothing  to  be  got  out 
of  Senn,  nothing  of  what  we've  all  made  over  to 
him.  He  belongs  to  the  Venus  Fly-trap  species 
of  capitalists;  all  the  traps  are  so  hinged  that 
whatever  goes  in  may  never  come  out." 

"Yes?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  all  her  old  interest 
in  other  people's  affairs.  It  was  very  pleas 
ant  and  homelike  here  now,  Miss  Incell  felt, 
with  Hilma  putting  away  the  supper  things 
and  Donaghey  going  about  doing  chores  for 
her  and  whistling  very  melodiously  under  his 
breath.  The  long  summer  twilight  made  lights 
unnecessary,  the  doors  and  windows  looking  out 
upon  the  forest  were  wide  open,  and  an  at 
mosphere  of  simple  domesticity  pervaded  the 
place,  infinitely  soothing  to  jangled  nerves  and  de 
pressed  spirits. 

"But  Will  and  I  will  be  busy  till  winter  comes 
working  on  Beebee's  place,"  he  went  on  quite 
ready  to  respond  to  her  interest,  though  not  alto 
gether  understanding  her  motive.  "We'll  earn 


50  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

enough  to  keep  Hilma  and  the  little  place  going 
and  after  that — 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  frankly,  I  don't  know  what  after  that 
.  .  .  Am  I  being  interviewed?"  he  asked 
with  a  smile.  "Surely  no  one  cares.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  a  reproach.  She  had  the  capacity 
to  make  friends  readily  and  she  was  accustomed 
to  meeting  men  upon  a  sort  of  brotherly  basis. 
The  novelty  of  her  acquaintance  with  this  man  and 
his  care  of  her  gave  her  a  sense  of  companionship 
with  Overman,  whom  she  had  known  only  as 
the  subject  for  a  freak  story  forty-eight  hours  ago. 
But  the  effectiveness  of  her  unspoken  reproach 
was  lessened  by  a  smothered  chuckle  from  Dona- 
ghey. 

The  Irishman  had  sat  down  on  the  door-step 
to  read  the  bundle  of  papers  he  had  brought  with 
him.  In  the  strenuous  necessity  for  bringing  a 
little  three-roomed  home  out  of  the  chaos  of  their 
sudden  departure  from  the  Fraternity  fold,  these 
three  were  probably  the  only  people  in  Little  Gap 
who  had  not  yet  enjoyed  Jessie  Incell's  expose  of  the 
Renunciant  cult,  and  the  peculiarly  personal 
method  with  which  she  had  done  her  work. 
Donaghey  with  an  extension  to  the  writer  of  that 
shame-facedness  which  he  would  have  experienced 
had  he  been  in  her  place,  fancied  that  Miss  Incell 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  51 

would  be  embarrassed  by  having  her  communica 
tion  to  the  paper  read  in  her  presence.  So  he  had 
retreated  to  the  front  door  steps,  expecting  to 
inform  himself  unnoticed  of  just  how  this  news 
paperwoman  had  been  impressed,  when  his  sud 
den  outburst  of  merriment  attracted  attention  to 
him.  Throwing  delicacy  to  the  winds  then,  he 
came  in  holding  the  big-lettered  sheet  ostentatious 
ly  before  him  and  chuckling  as  he  read  aloud. 

"  '  He  made  a  picturesque  figure  standing  there 
in  the  twilight,  his  long,  straight  body  and  hand 
some,  earnest  face  set  off  by  the  coarse  simplicity 
of  his  attire.  "My  name  is  Overman,"  he  said 

with  quiet  dignity' "By  the  bones  of 

Saint  Simon,  Adonis  Anthony,  how  does  that 
strike  you  ?" 

Overman  tore  the  paper  from  his  hands.  He 
stood  looking,  as  though  what  he  saw  was  unbe 
lievable,  from  the  girl  on  the  lounge  to  the  sensa 
tional  exploitation  in  her  sketch  and  interview  of 
his  personality.  His  growing  liking  for  her,  his 
pity  for  her  suffering  were  drowned  in  a  nauseating 
consciousness  of  the  unwarranted  impudence  of 
the  thing  he  was  reading.  He  flushed  hot  with 
anger  and  distaste.  So  this  was  what  she  meant 
by  an  interview,  and  this  was  the  use  she  had  put 
him  to!  The  paper  slipped  from  his  fingers  and 
he  turned  from  her,  trying  to  conceal  his  indig- 


52  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

nation  reminding  himself  that  she  was  a  woman 
and  helpless  and  his  guest.  But  she  was  wholly 
unconscious  of  the  effort  he  made  and  quite  inno 
cent  of  having  given  offense.  The  sight  of  the 

o    o  o 

paper,  her  own  paper,  containing  her  own  story 
had  roused  all  her  professional  instinct. 

"If  you  don't  give  me  those  papers,"  she 
threatened  laughingly,  "I'll  get  up  and  take  them 
from  you. " 

She  seized  the  sheets  avidly  that  Donaghey 
brought  her. 

"Fancy  being  two  days  without  your  own  paper 
when  it's  starring  your  most  sensational  story!" 
she  murmured  wholly  absorbed. 

She  glanced  quickly  over  the  illustrations;  saw 
her  sketch  of  Overman  completed  in  Ordway's 
showy,  insincere  style  and  labeled  "Anthony,  the 
Adonis  of  the  Renunciants";  noted  that  her  editor 
had  retained  the  sub-head  she  had  suggested  under 
the  picture  of  the  photograph  of  Brother  Jared, 
leader  of  the  schism— "If  Senn  must  get  drunk, 
why  don't  he  do  it  privately?";  saw  the  uncut 
length  of  the  story,  the  prominence  given  it  and  her 
name;  read  the  flaring  headlines  over  again  and 
sank  back  with  a  sigh  of  gratification,  of  thorough 
content. 

'The  Inquirer's  all  right,"  she  cried.  "Here's 
to  the  office!" 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  53 

Her  words  might  have  been  an  invocation,  for 
a  man  suddenly  blocked  the  doorway,  repeating 
them  with  a  seconding  cordiality. 

" That's  good  loyal  doctrine.  Here's  to  it!" 
he  said  coming  in  upon  them  and  hurrying  toward 
her.  "You  bet  it's  all  right,  for  it  gave  me  the 
detail  of  coming  up  to  rescue  you,  Jessie  Incell." 

He  was  a  smooth-shaven  fellow  with  a  cynical 
mouth  and  a  clear,  alert  eye.  He  walked  with  an 
unmistakeable  air  of  confidence  in  himself  and  on 
his  entrance  took  possession  of  the  centre  of  the 
little  stage  with  a  manner  that  was  as  arrogant  as 
it  was  unconscious. 

"Dean  Morgan!"  Jessie  held  out  both  hands 
which  he  took,  bending  over  her  with  an  empress- 
ment  half-sincere,  half-burlesque.  She  drew  back 
then  saying  saucily,  "It's  purely  in  your  official 
capacity  that  I  am  falling  upon  your  neck,  Mr. 
Morgan.  It's  like  a  whiff  of  home  to  see  someone 
from  the  office." 

"I  quite  understand,  you  needn't  make  it  so 
plain,  Miss  Incell,"  he  rejoined  readily  with  a 
grin.  "It  was  a  purely  official  kjss,  a  family 
caress  of  a  joint  and  several  community  nature 
which  I  was  about  to  imprint  upon  your  chaste 
journalistic  cheek." 

" Journalistic  cheek!  That's  just  what  yours 
is,"  she  cried.  "It's  awfully  kind  of  you,  but  you 


54  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

know  you're  famous  in  the  local  room  for  over 
doing  your  details." 

"Upon  my  honor  as  a  journalist,  Miss  Incell, 
I  swear  to  you  it  was  the  Boss's  orders  that— 

"Bosh!" 

He  laughed  good-naturedly  and  turned  to  the 
tall,  stout  man  who  had  followed  him  and  still 
stood  in  the  doorway,  curiously  looking  in. 

"Come  in,  Doctor,"  Morgan  said.  "I  don't 
think  you'll  find  your  patient's  condition  very 
serious,  if  one  may  judge  by  the  fact  tha-1:  she's 
quite  as  impertinent  as  she  ever  was." 

To  the  Swedish  girl,  they  seemed  to  fill  the 
little  roughly  finished  room,  these  two  pros 
perous-looking  men  with  their  well-made  city 
clothes  and  their  manner  of  being  born  to  com 
fort,  to  a  knowledge  of  the  world  and  how  to 
make  use  of  the  good  things  in  it.  When 
Miss  Incell  turned  to  introduce  her  friends  to 
her  hosts,  she  found  that  both  Donaghey  and 
Overman  had  disappeared,  while  Hilma's  round 
gray  eyes  and  pink  cheeks  attested  her  excite 
ment  and  appreciation  of  the  honor  done  her  rude 
little  home. 

"You  may  go  outside  and  smoke  while  the 
doctor  looks  at  my  ankle,"  Miss  Incell  said  to 
her  fellow  journalist.  "Mrs.  Donaghey  will 
help  us,  won't  you  Hilma  ?  Do  come  in." 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  55 

"I  will  happy  be,"  stammered  the  Swedish 
girl  shyly. 

"Doctor  Baumfelder,  Mrs.  Donaghey — a  born 
nurse,  doctor,  the  softest-fingered,  lightest-footed 
creature  that  was  ever  seen  off  the  boughs  of  a  tree. 
She's  simply  been  too  kind  to  me." 

"No — no!"  Hilma  blushed  furiously. 

"And  Mr.  Morgan,  Hilma,  a  facetious  reporter 
on  the  Inquirer,  whose  head  is  swelled  because 
he's  been  made  assistant  city  editor.  Go  outside 
now,  like  a  nice  child,"  she  waved  a  dismissing 
hand  toward  Morgan,  "and  keep  out  of  mischief 
if  you  can." 

"All    right,    ma'am." 

Morgan  dropped  his  overcoat  on  a  chair  and 
walked  out  and  down  the  rude  steps.  The  forest 
was  evidently  the  back-yard  of  this  primitive 
cottage  which  fronted  the  road,  but  between  it  and 
the  white  strip,  narrow  here  almost  as  a  path, 
there  was  a  space  of  tangled  vines  and  decapitated 
trees  in  which  two  men  were  working.  Morgan 
lighted  a  cigar  and  walked  over  toward  them. 

"Good-evening.  Have  a  cigar?"  He  held 
out  a  couple. 

"I  don't  smoke,"  said  Donaghey. 

"You  make  a  mistake,"  Morgan  said  puffing 
pleasurably.  "Won't  you  have  one?"  he  turned 
to  Overman. 


56  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"Thank  you,  I've  got  to  go  in  now." 

"What  for  ?"  asked  Morgan,  for  the  reason  that 
he  always  asked  a  question  when  he  wanted  an 
answer. 

"To  wash  dishes."  Overman  turned  his  back 
upon  the  newspaperman  and  disappeared  round 
the  rear  of  the  house. 

"Sociable  kind  of  fellow  that,"  laughed  Morgan. 
"  I  wonder  what  sort  of  husband  he  really  makes. " 

"He's  not  the  husband,  I  am,"  said  Donaghey 
crossly. 

"Why  don't  you  do  the  dish-washing  then?" 

"Why   don't  you  mind  your  own   business?" 

"And  me  a  newspaperman!  Now,  isn't  it  too 
much  you  are  asking  ?  What  the  devil's  the  matter 
with  you  two  anyway  ?  One  would  think  I  was 
Christopher  Columbus  come  up  to  discover  and 
defraud  the  natives." 

"We  don't  like  reporters,"  said  Donaghey 
shortly  as  he  turned  to  follow  his  friend. 

"That's  not  surprising.  Reporters  can't  like 
you  either  but  they  can  let  you  know  it  without 
behaving  like  savages.  But  that's  not  wThat  I 
wanted  to  say.  The  Inquirer  has  sent  me  up 
here  to  see  that  Miss  Incell  gets  the  best  of  care. 
You  understand,  don't  you,  that  the  paper  is  re 
sponsible  for  all  her  bills  ?  Just  hand  yours  to  me 
when  you're  ready," 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  57 

:t There  isn't  any  to  hand — there  won't  be  any," 
Donaghey  called  over  his  shoulder. 

"Well  I'll  be     ..." 

The  Irishman's  departure  rendered  completion 
of  his  sentence  unnecessary,  and  Morgan  strolled 
about  the  little  space  in  the  dusk,  puffing  content 
edly  at  his  cigar,  and  then  lighting  another  and 
another,  wasting  no  thought,  apparently,  upon  the 
encounter.  He  was  glad,  though,  when  the  big 
surgeon  appeared  at  the  door  and  beckoned  to 
him. 

"I  say,  Jessie,"  Morgan  began  even  as  he 
mounted  the  steps,  "this  is  a  queer  joint  you've 
fallen  into.  We  must  get  you  out  of  it  good 
and  quick.  A  girl  I  know  is  the  Boss's 
white-haired  boy  since  this  Renunciant  scoop  of 
yours  was  delivered,  and  I'm  to  spend  the 
shekels  generously  for  you.  A  congenial  detail- 
well,  I  wonder!  ...  I  say,  what's  the 
matter?" 

Miss  Incell  opened  a  pair  of  dull,  suffering  eyes 
in  an  ashy  face.  She  smiled  wanly  up  at  Morgan 
but  did  not  speak. 

"The  able  country  practitioner  has  been  getting 
in  his  deadly  work,"  explained  Baumfelder,  an 
eminent  member  of  his  profession,  his  skill  being 
supplemented  and  directed  by  a  fund  of  practical 


58  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

commonsense  which  was  evidenced  in  everything 
he  undertook,  except  his  Bohemian  connections 
with  newspaper  people,  whom  he  persisted  in 
investing  with  a  literary  spirit  utterly  foreign  to 
their  work.  "And  I  have  had  to  undo  it.  Miss 
Incell's  a  heroine,"  he  added. 

Baumfelder  had  two  fads,  women  and  journal 
ists.  To  find  the  two  combined  in  one  appealed 
to  the  little  that  was  weak  in  him. 

But  Miss  Incell  raised  a  deprecating  hand.  "Let 
your  editorial  columns  be  free  from  bias,  Doctor," 
she  said  weakly.  "Honesty's  the  best  policy 
there  in  the  long  run,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
you're  bound  to  be  seen  through.  I'm  what  a 
cockney  reporter  on  the  Inquirer  used  to  call 
'a  bleddy  haound'  when  it  comes  to  submitting 
to  surgical  torture.  You've  taken  the  starch  out 
of  me  and — 

"And  you'd  better  not  talk  any  more,"  he  said, 
as  ungallantly  severe  in  his  professional  capacity 
as  he  was  mendaciously  complimentary  on  his 
social  side.  "Go  to  sleep,  Miss  Incell.  Dean 
and  I'll  go  up  to  the  hotel  and  to-morrow  morning 
we'll  come  down  to  see  how  you're  progressing. 
Good-night.  Good-night,  Nurse." 

The  great  man  smilingly  held  out  his  hand  to 
the  confused  Swedish  girl,  who  wiped  her  own  on 
her  apron  before  she  took  the  long,  beautifully 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  59 

strong  white  fingers  reverently  for  a  moment  in 
hers. 

"Good-night,  you  poor  little  girl,"  Morgan 
whispered  almost  tenderly. 

But  the  clever  Miss  Incell  must  have  been  too 
exhausted  even  to  resent  his  tone. 


CHAPTER   V 

sensati°n  °f  resting  on  the  bosom 
of  Abraham  when  she's  in  your  care," 
Miss  Incell  said  gratefully  to  her  physician  in 
answer  to  his  query  as  to  how  she  had  slept. 

There  was  very  little  of  the  coquette  about  this 
young  woman,  but  it  was  not  in  feminine  flesh  and 
blood  wholly  to  resist  the  influence  of  this  woman 
worshiper. 

"My  first  name  is  Paul,"  murmured  the  great 
surgeon  appreciatively.  "It  is  my  brother — a 
man  literally  devoid  of  enthusiasms,  except  for 
ptomaines  who  was  called  after  the  father  of 
our  tribe." 

"Thank  you,"  said  his  patient  pertly. 

At  which  they  both  laughed,  clearing  the  flirta 
tious  atmosphere  and  settling  down  to  business. 
Through  all  this  light  badinage  the  Swedish  girl 
listened  soberly,  in  gentle  uncomprehension.  She 
looked  upon  the  great  surgeon  with  awed  eyes, 
only  a  degree  less  admiring  than  the  gaze  with 
which  she  beheld  Jessie  Incell,  a  woman  perfectly 
at  her  ease  with  such  men  as  this.  And  Baum- 
felder,  with  that  quick  and  pleased  recognition  of 
thoroughness  in  any  capacity,  which  marked  his 
nature,  was  able  to  put  Hilma  as  nearly  at  her  ease 
as  it  was  possible  for  so  shy  a  creature  to  be.  The 

60 


6i 


appearance  of  Morgan,  though,  always  embar 
rassed  her  to  the  point  of  disappearance. 

"It's  a  disease  of  the  native  up  in  this  part  of 
the  world,"  the  young  man  said  laughing  after 
Hilma  had  escaped.  'There's  something  eerie, 
Jessie,  about  the  folk  one  meets  about  this  en 
chanted  cottage.  The  moment  you  speak  to 
them  they  disappear.  It's  this  habit,  their  love 
of  keeping  dark  and  laying  low  and  mortifying 
their  natural  inquisitiveness  that  has  given  them 
their  community  name,  I  suppose.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  don't  believe  there's  anybody  alive 
here  except  the  doctor,  you  and  me,  Miss  Incell. 
The  others  are  wraiths — with  damn  bad  man 
ners." 

Miss  Incell  pulled  herself  upright,  earning  a 
reproof,  which  she  ignored,  from  Baumfelder  for 
her  impulsiveness. 

"They're  the  nicest  people  in  the  world,  Dean 
Morgan,"  she  declared  ardently. "I  know  people 
whose  manners  would  earn  even  your  commen 
dation,  Mr.  Assistant  City  Editor,  who  haven't 
the  taste  and  natural  kindness  of  these." 

"Which  of  them — the  boors  I  ran  on  to  last 
night?" 

"I  won't  have  you  speak  like  that!"  she  said 
sharply.  "The  office  didn't  send  you  up  here  to 
say  nasty  things  about  people  who've  been  kind 


62  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

to  me.  And  you  mustn't  quarrel  with  me.  It 
affects  my  temper — ature^  doesn't  it,  Doctor  ?" 

So  Morgan  sat  down  amiably  and  gossiped  the 
morning  away.  He  told  Miss  Incell  all  the  latest 
personal  details  of  the  office — who  was  rumored  up 
and  who  down  since  the  Boss's  return;  who  had 
made  a  scoop  and  who  had  fallen  down;  and  who 
was  about  to  flit  from  one  journalistic  perch  to  an 
other;  of  the  artist  who  was  scheming  to  get  on  the 
Inquirer  and  the  restless  reporter  who  was  about  to 
leave  it;  of  the  newest  social  scandal  and  the 
latest  political  development.  He  talked  well  and 
wittily  and  she  enjoyed  to  the  full  a  return  in 
spirit  to  the  busy,  impertinent,  knowing  atmos- 
sphere  that  was  so  congenial  to  her. 

At  noon  Hilma  served  luncheon  and  Doctor 
Baumfelder,  the  most  fastidious  epicure  in  a  club 
of  gourmets,  partook  of  the  fried  ham,  the  biscuits 
and  tea  with  a  pretense  of  enjoyment  that  de 
lighted  the  little  Swede. 

O 

The  two  men  lounged  off  during  the  afternoon 
striding  over  the  little  town,  the  observed  of  all  the 
curious  eyes  in  Little  Gap  which  looked  upon  the 
accident  to  Jessie  Incell  in  their  midst  as  one  of 
those  unexpected  boons  which  Providence  occa 
sionally  bestows  upon  the  deserving.  It  was 
vouchsafed  to  Doctor  Purcey  to  meet  and  greet 
the  great  Baumfelder,  to  walk  with  him  through 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  63 

Little  Gap's  one  street,  to  be  invited  to  take  a 
drink  at  the  hotel,  and  to  be  gently  but  firmly 
turned  out  of  his  case  without  his  even  so  much  as 
suspecting  that  his  treatment  of  it  had  met  with 
anything  but  the  fullest  approval.  He  displayed 
the  generous  check  Morgan  had  drawn  for  his 
services  at  the  grocery  store,  in  the  ostensible 
course  of  cashing  it,  and  his  acquaintance  with 
the  noted  surgeon  became  one  of  those  myths  in 
his  memory  which  grow  in  the  reciting  and  in  pro 
portion  to  the  recession  of  its  origin  in  antiquity. 

But  when  Baumfelder  told  Miss  Incell  that 
evening  after  examining  her  ankle,  that  she  must 
look  forward  to  a  stay  of  some  weeks  in  the  little 
town,  she  promptly  and  petulantly  refused  to 
obey;  a  bit  of  feminine  perversity  whose  signifi 
cance  Doctor  Baumfelder  was  altogether  too  wise 
to  overvalue,  especially  as  his  patient's  mind 
turned  immediately  to  a  remorseful  realization  of 
what  exile  from  town  must  mean  to  these  two  city- 
bred  visitors. 

"Go  back,  both  of  you,"  she  commanded. 
"Take  the  night  train — only  lost  souls  dare  try  the 
day  one  in  summer — and  leave  me  to  my  fate. 
Stay  ?  Of  course,  I'll  have  to  stay,  a  while  any 
way.  But  I  know  what'll  become  of  me.  I'll 
turn  Renunciant  in  despair,  I  know  I  will,  and  be 
come  old  Senn's  private  secretary.  I'll  comb  my 


64  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

hair  back  straight,  forget  how  to  take  a  joke  and 
pass  into  the  fold,  recanting  all  my  errors  and 
burning  the  Inquirer  publicly  at  a  midnight  orgie 
on  top  of  Renunciant  Hill  .  .  .  Dost  like  the 
picture,  Doctor  ?" 

"Don't  say  you  like  any  picture  for  which  she 
poses,  even  a  renouncing  one,  now  don't,  Baum- 
felder,"  interrupted  Morgan.  "She's  already 
so  spoiled  that  there's  no  standing  her." 

The  two  men  departed  in  a  whirl  of  facetious 
sentiment  that  left  the  little  cottage  quite  quiet  and 
isolated.  Hilma  had  listened  to  the  doctor's  last 
directions  like  an  acolyte  before  the  high  priest,  as 
Morgan  phrased  it,  and  it  was  agreed  that  Baum- 
felder  should  come  up  again  to  Little  Gap  in  a 
week  should  circumstances  require  it,  and  that 
Morgan  should  come  whenever  Miss  Incell  tele 
graphed  for  him. 

It  was  a  strange  life  that  now  opened  before  the 
young  woman,  a  life  of  long,  still  days  and  long, 
silent  nights.  The  uneventful  monotony  of  the 
time  lay  upon  her  at  first  as  a  tangible  load  of  hours 
and  stillness.  The  isolation  of  the  little  cottage, 
the  unaccustomed  idleness  and  the  rigidity  of 
pose  against  which  Miss  Incell's  spirit  and  her 
body  chafed,  together  with  the  knowledge  that  all 
this  was  not  for  a  day  but  for  an  indefinite  number 
of  days  that  stretched  dully  ahead  of  her — this 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  65 

threw  the  stricken  journalist  into  a  state  of  nervous 
irritation,  from  which  she  suddenly  awakened  to 
the  piqued  consciousness  that  she  had  not  seen 
Overman  for  a  week  and  demanded  of  herself  the 
reason  for  his  neglect. 

She  was  rather  a  spoiled  young  woman,  though 
a  very  practical  one.  Her  talent,  her  bonhomie, 
an  unpretentious  ease  of  manner,  her  frank  and 
unaffected  good-nature  and  a  sterling  sense  of 
humor  made  her  welcome  among  the  men  at 
the  office  who  liked  a  good  fellow,  whether  that 
fellow  were  masculine  or  feminine.  She  was  ac 
customed  to  finding  people  quite  ready  to  like  her, 
and  civilizing  contact  with  the  other  sex  had  taught 
her  not  to  demand  too  much  of  the  ensuing  friend 
ship.  She  knew  men  and  liked  them  and  was  not 
given  to  overestimating  their  vices  nor  under- 

O  O 

valuing  their  virtues.  She  took  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  they  should  treat  her  differently  than 
other  women  were  treated,  seeking  her  out  and 
making  their  points  for  the  benefit  of  her  criticism 
or  admiration,  precisely  as  she  herself  sought 
them.  She  had  so  long  ceased  to  regard  men 
solely  from  the  point  of  view  which  hamp 
ers  yet  thrills  femininity  that  it  did  not  occur  to 
her  to  conceal  a  liking  for  any  particular 
one  of  them  when  it  took  possession  of  her. 
Anything  deeper  or  more  disturbing  than  lik- 


66  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

ing  had  not  yet  entered   into  her  busy  scheme  of 
things. 

She  watched  Hilma  one  long  afternoon  for  hours 
trying  to  decide  just  how  she  could  present  the 
subject.  It  irritated  her  to  know  that  she  was 
planning  a  strategic  attack  upon  that  which  there 
was  no  admissible  reason  she  should  not  approach 
frankly.  And,  stung  by  the  thought,  she  suddenly 
opened  with  a  question. 

"Hilma,  where  is  Mr.  Overman?" 
"Anthony  ?"  The  Swedish  girl  turned  her  eyes 
upon  Miss  Incell,  who  fidgeted  beneath  that  clear, 
childish  gaze  fancying  it  saw  farther  than  it 
really  did.  "He  stays  now  at  Beebee's — An 
thony." 

"All  day  and  all  night  too  ?" 
"He  works  the  day.     By  night  he  sleeps  there." 
"Because  I  have  taken  his  place  here?" 
"No — surely.     For  he  and  Will,  the  both,  sleep 
together.     And  often,  when  it  hot  is  like  now,  they 
sleep  outside  the  trees  under." 

"Why  then  doesn't  he  come  home." 
The  simple  phrase  as  she  spoke  it  touched  a 
hitherto  silent  chord  in  Jessie  Incell.  She  had 
never  before  been  placed  in  the  position  so  familiar 
to  women;  it  was  she  who  "came  home";  not 
any  man  who  came  home  to  her. 

"That  I  do  know  not,"  Hilma  answered  simply. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  67 

Miss  Incell  pondered  a  moment.  "Well,  tell 
him  then — tell  Will  to  tell  him  that  I  want  to  see 
him." 

Hilma  bowed  her  head  obediently.  Nothing 
was  to  be  denied  this  marvelous  woman  who 
issued  orders  to  men  and  met  them  on  a  footing 
that  the  Swedish  girl  considered  little  short  of 
sacreligious. 

Overman  came  the  next  evening.  It  was  after 
supper  at  the  end  of  a  hot  day,  and  in  her  pleasure  at 
the  prospect  of  any  change  in  the  slow  monotony 
of  existence,  Miss  Incell  would  have  welcomed 
him  with  that  eager,  boyish  interest  in  others 
which  made  an  introduction  to  her  an  experience, 
had  it  not  been  for  his  own  manner. 

"How  do  you  do  ?"  he  asked  civilly.  "I  hope 
you  are  better.  You  wanted  to  see  me — is  there 
anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

As  she  looked  up  at  him  she  experienced  a  vari 
ety  of  emotions;  she  told  herself  that  disgust  was 
the  predominating  one. 

"Yes,"  she  said  shortly,  "  a  number  of  things. 
For  one,  you  might  take  a  seat  instead  of  towering 
above  one  like  an  uncomfortable  genius  who  had 
come  unwillingly,  because  he  couldn't  help  it 
when  the  lamp  was  rubbed." 

"Do  I  make  you  nervous,  Aladdin  ?"  he  laughed 
obeying  her. 


68  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

She  was  surprised  herself  at  the  pleasure  the 
change  in  his  tone  gave  her. 

"To  be  frank,  you  make  me — 'tired',  "  she 
said,  but  with  no  faultfinding  in  her  voice.  "You 
put  me  in  the  position  of  asking  the  reason  why  and 
I'm  not  accustomed  to  asking  the  reason,  for  I 
don't  usually  care." 

"'  Why  'what?" 

"Why  you  are  so  grudging  in  your  hospitality 
as  to  compel  your  guest  to  imagine  a  reason  for 
your  keeping  out  of  her  way." 

He  made  an  indignant  motion,  but  checked 
it. 

"And  what  reason  have  you  imagined,  Miss 
Incell?" 

'There  can  be  but  one — that  you  resent  my 
being  here." 

"You  know  that  isn't  true." 

"Of  course  I  do,"  she  laughed.  "But  in  the 
name  of  all  that's  feminine,  what  else  could  I  say 
to  a  man  so  shamelessly  straightforward  as  you  are, 
who's  too  good  to  lie  even  a  little  bit  for  politeness' 
sake  and  to  a  girl!" 

"Don't — don't  say  anything,"  he  urged.  "You 
make  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself  now  that  I  am 
with  you  and— 

"Didn't  it  occur  to  you,"  she  demanded  se 
verely  rejoicing  in  the  ease  with  which  she  had 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  69 

won,  "that  I  must  make  some  arrangement  with 
you  toward  paying  for  my  expenses  here  ?" 

"With  me?     No." 

"Why  not?  Isn't  it  your  house?  Didn't  all 
that's  left  of  your  money  pay  for  it  ?" 

"Hilma  has  told  you.  Yes,  but  the  place  is 
hers.  She  will  accept  nothing  from  you,  you 
know  that." 

"She  must — or  I  won't  stay  here." 

He  smiled.    "  What  will  you,  what  can  you  do  ? " 

"I  can  have  myself  taken  up  to  that  fiendish 
hotel,"  she  smiled  back,  "where  I  shall  be  driven 
mad  by  a  trained  nurse  sent  up  from  the  city  by 
the  office." 

"You  wouldn't  do  so  foolish  a  thing." 

"Oh,  wouldn't  I?  You  don't  know  me." 

'The  doctor  has  forbidden  you  to  move,"  he 
said  earnestly. 

"  But  the  doctor  can't  make  me  forfeit  my  self- 
respect  for  an  old  crooked  ankle." 

"I  do  hope  you  will  not  insist." 

"But  I  will —  if  you  make  me.  I'd  rather  limp 
than  fall  upon  you  three  like  a  highwaywoman 
and  hold  you  up  for  such  services — leaving  out 
the  way  in  which  Hilma  has  given  them — as  any 
hospital  in  San  Francisco  would  make  the  In 
quirer  shed  tears  of  gold  to  pay.  If  you  won't 
listen  to  me  I'll  speak  to  Hilma." 


7o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"Do." 

"I  shall.  But  there's  another  thing.  Don't 
you  suppose  Hilma's  bored  to  death  with  me  and 
deserves  some  help  from  you  in  the  task  of  bearing 
with  me  ?" 

"You  know  she  is  devoted  to  you.  You  have 
made  her  love  you  in  these  few  days,  love  to  wait 
upon  you." 

"There  is  an  uncomplimentary  surprise  in  your 
voice,  Mr.  Overman.  Well,  don't  you  suppose 
that  she  and  her  husband  get  tired  of  an  eternal 
third  person  around,  who  is  simply  thrown  upon 
their  mercy  ?  Don't  you  suppose  they'd  like  you 
to  take  me  off  their  hands  so  that  they  could  be 
alone  occasionally  ?" 

"No." 

"You  don't!"  Her  eyes  were  merrily  cynical. 
"  Why  should  they  be  different  from  other  people  ? ' ' 

"I  have  told  you.  And,  as  you  have  expressed 
it  in  your  article  when  you  spoke  of  Senn,  'Dis 
cussion  of  such  subjects  may  as  well  be  confined'to 
the  medical  profession;  normal  people  consider 
them  unfit  for  publication.' 

"Not  indelicately  put,  do  you  think?"  she 
asked  with  pretended  innocence,  but  she  was  con 
sumed  with  anger. 

"There  would  have  been  more  delicacy  in  not 
putting  it  at  all,"  he  said  stiffly. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  71 

"Oh,  indeed!  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
compliment  me  on  my  moderation.  But  what's 
a  newspaper  reporter  for  then  ?" 

"I'm  sure,"  he  said  slowly?  "I  don't  know." 

"So  that's  it — eh?"  She  sat  up  straight  and 
met  his  eyes  angrily;  angrily  conscious,  too,  that 
he  could  anger  her. 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  When  he  did 
speak  his  voice  was  so  gentle  that  it  rebuked  the 
acerbity  in  her  own. 

"No,  this  is  what  it  is.  You  have  made  me 
ridiculous — which  is  nothing,  for  I  am  an  ob 
scure  individual  and,  as  you  may  imagine,  one  who 
has  so  little  care  for  conventionalities  as  to  join  a 
crank  community  cannot  be  very  susceptible  to 
what  people  think  or  say  of  him.  But  I  did  meet 
you  fairly  and  frankly  that  night  and,  because  you 
are  a  woman  perhaps  or  because  my  mind  was  still 
a-whirl  with  change,  having  to  choose  suddenly  a 
new  viewpoint  from  which  to  measure  things — 
anyway,  I  spoke  to  you  as  a  man  does  not  speak 
to  the  world  at  large.  I  repeat,  I  am  of  no  im 
portance,  but  the  treachery— 

"Treachery!" 

"Yes,  the  treachery,  in  spirit,  in  effect,  is  not 
such  because  it  was  done  to  me.  The  pitiable 
state  in  which  you  found  us,  Will,  Hilma  and  me, 
might  have  appealed  to  a  thoughtful  woman  or 


72  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

one  who  had  a  heart.  It  was  only  material  for  you, 
and  the  dishonorable  use — 

"I  like  that!"     She  blazed  at  him. 

"It  was  dishonorable,"  he  went  on  sternly,  "for 
you  knew  well  that  if  I  could  have  anticipated  that 
sensational,  unfair,  intensely  and  impertinently 
personal  article  of  yours,  I  should  not  have  spoken 
to  you,  I  should  not  have  provided  you  with 
material  for  it.  You  knew  what  you  were  going 
to  do  with  it.  You  took  care  not  to  let  me 
know— 

"I  did  not — I  did  not  consider  you  at  all.  I 
never  thought  to  see  you  or  speak  to  you  again!" 
she  exclaimed  hotly. 

"And  for  that  reason  you  took  a  mean  advan 
tage  of  our  position,  of  my  foolish  candor,  and  you 
served  us  up  as  a  ridiculous  lot  of  fools,  without 
any  regard  for  the  deeper  significance  our  folly 
betokened.  It  was  the  act  of  a  clever,  conscience 
less,  frivolous  woman.  There  is  a  noblesse  oblige 
binding  upon  those  whose  mental  endowment  has 
put  them  in  the  aristocracy  of  brains;  its  obliga 
tions  include  a  reverence  for  honest,  hopeful  belief 
in  the  betterment  of  worldly  conditions.  For 
what  is  the  petty  product  of  men's  thought  com 
pared  to  the  only  work  on  earth  that  is  worth 
doing — making  it  a  better,  easier,  finer  place  to 
live  in  ?  God  made  man " 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  73 

"Did  he?  Are  you  so  sure  of  that?  I'm  not 
and  I  don't  care  by  the  equivocation  of  silence  to 
pretend  to  such  a  belief,  when  neither  I — nor  you— 
nor  anyone  else  can  know  anything  about  it." 

She  saw  with  satisfaction  that  she  had  shocked 
him. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  wandered, 
as  I  am  apt  to,  because  of  my  interest  in  the  thing 
that  fills  my  thought.  What  I  started  to  say  is 
that  such  men  and  women  as  you  lower  their  order, 
the  order  of  intellect,  when  they  put  their  gifts  to 
such  base,  trivial  use  as  this;  when  they  point  out 
the  obviously  weak  and  ridiculous  steps  by  which 
humanity  is  striving  to  crawl  forward  and  up 
ward,  and  lazily  or  ignorantly  or  cruelly  ignore  the 
fact  that  the  movement  is  onward,  upward.  Such 
natures  would  see  the  dust  on  the  hem  of  Christ's 
gown  as  He  passed  and  gleefully  put  all  their 
talents  to  mock  at  it,  never  once  realizing  that 
He  had  passed,  so  blind  are  they  to  the  glory  of 
His  presence,  so  deaf  to  the  ineffable  music  of 
His  words!" 

He  had  risen  and  was  standing,  his  stern  eyes 
blazing  down  upon  her.  She  had  fallen  back 
upon  her  pillow,  her  face  white  with  anger. 

"And  so,"  her  words  fell  like  cool,  ironical 
drops  upon  the  heated  silence,  "so  you  stayed 
away  to  punish  me?" 


74  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"No    .     .     ." 

"Well?" 

"To  punish  me,"  he  said  simply. 

She  looked  up  eagerly. 

"For  still — liking  you  .  .  .  in  spite  of  it," 
he  answered  the  compelling  question  in  her  eyes. 

Her  lids  fell  with  the  answer  and  a  silence  came 
upon  the  little  room  and  on  them  both.  Over 
man  stood  looking  down  upon  her  with  a  queer 
expression  in  his  troubled  eyes  that  seemed  to 
plead  with  her  to  help  him  against  herself.  She 
did  not  meet  his  gaze.  She  was  wondering  why 
she  no  longer  felt  the  smallest  irritation  at  his 
arraignment  of  her.  His  last  admission — the  old 
self-surrender  of  all  his  weapons  in  one  that  man 
makes  to  woman — blotted  out  everything  else. 

"What  a  crank  you  are!"  she  sighed  at  last 
happily. 


CHAPTER  VI 

T"\OCTOR  BAUMFELDER'S  assistant,  who 
came  up  to  Little  Gap  during  the  following 
week  to  see  Miss  Incell,  reported  to  his  chief 
and  to  the  managing  editor  of  the  Inquirer  that, 
although  convalescence  had  set  in  and  the  nurs 
ing  of  his  patient  was  all  that  could  be  desired, 
the  young  woman's  recovery  was  bound  to  be 
very  slow.  She  had  used  the  ankle  after  fracturing 
the  small  bone  whose  misplacement  was  but 
half  the  trouble,  abrading  the  skin  which  the  coun 
try  doctor's  herbal  treatment  had  slightly  in 
fected.  Though  all  danger  of  any  serious  result 
was  quite  at  an  end,  the  young  lady  should  posi 
tively  not  put  her  weight  on  that  foot  for  weeks  to 
come;  nor  should  she  be  hurried  even  with  the  use 
of  a  crutch.  He  begged  to  add,  however,  that  the 
country  air  itself  was  highly  beneficial,  that  the 
patient  was  cheerful  and  had  every  necessary  con 
venience,  despite  the  peculiarities  of  the  odd  little 
household,  and  she  seemed  not  at  all  impatient  to 
get  away  when  he  left  Little  Gap. 

The  next  train  after  the  one  which  took  the 
assistant  back  to  San  Francisco  brought  Miss 
Incell  a  huge  bunch  of  civilized  roses  from  her 
editor,  a  box  of  candy  that  was  built  up  like  a 
saccharine  cave-dweller's  house  from  Morgan,  a 

75 


76  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

letter  from  Baumfelder,  which  began  with  strictly 
professional  and  lucid  directions  as  to  further 
precautions  her  nurse  must  take,  and  ended  with 
a  personal,  flirtatious  touch  that  was  thoroughly 
characteristic. 

Truly  Miss  Incell  was  very  content.  Her 
trunk  had  been  sent  up  to  her,  she  received  the 
papers  regularly,  by  every  mail  she  got  books  and 
magazines.  She  wearied  often  of  bodily  inaction, 
but  mentally  and  physically  she  seemed  to  be 
tasting  a  new  experience  that  demanded  nothing 
of  her  save  easy,  pleasant  acquiescence. 

Her  papers  and  books  had  at  last  bridged  over 
the  distrust  with  which  Donaghey  had  at  first  re 
garded  her.  The  Irishman,  who  had  hitherto 
avoided  her  or  been  silent  and  ill-at-ease  in  her 
presence,  fancying  that  her  eyes  were  still  and 
always  exercising  their  critical,  inquisitive,  repor- 
torial  function,  had  a  passion  for  reading  which 
was  like  that  of  a  child  whose  starved,  virgin  mind 
wakes  suddenly  to  realization  of  the  fact  that  men 
have  thought  and  written.  He  had  an  argumen 
tative,  impressionable  mind,  and  he  fell  into  the 
habit  of  discussing  all  he  read  with  this  girl- 
journalist,  for  the  pleasure  it  was  to  listen  to  her 
cynical  comment  which  reflected  the  behind-the- 
scenes  atmosphere  of  the  office  where  she  had 
learned  disillusion,  but  without  bitterness.  And 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  77 

she  bound  him  more  strongly  to  her  by  playing 
fairy  god-mother  to  his  wishes;  causing  the  books 
to  appear  almost  immediately  which  he  coveted 
as  soon  as  he  read  of  them  in  the  book-reviews. 

With  Donaghey's  surrender  the  rough-hewn 
walls  of  the  little  log  cabin  in  the  forest  became 
the  scene  of  a  simply-lived,  homelike  idyl,  whose 
magic  the  four  who  dwelt  within  learned  to  look 
back  upon  and  wonder  at,  as  they  might  who 
have  passed  through  dreamland  awake. 

A  radiance  of  peace  illumined  Hilma's  fair  face 
in  those  days;  every  common  detail  of  woman's 
lot  was  glorified  for  her  in  that  sun  that  lights  up 
personal  experience  once  in  a  woman's  lifetime 
and  makes  the  scheme  of  creation  seem  to  her  a 
thing  planned  with  reference  solely  to  herself  as  its 
object  and  end.  She  finished  one  labor  and 
began  another,  feeling  in  each  an  intimate  interest 
and  pleasure  that  made  her  busy  days  a  symphony 
of  praise  and  thanksgiving.  She  loved  every  stick 
and  stone  upon  the  premises;  they  were  hers. 
She  spent  a  wealth  of  loving  care  and  forethought 
upon  every  household  detail,  and  her  cheerful 
thrift,  her  ingenuity  and  patient  industry  made 
every  one  in  the  little  place  so  comfortable  that 
isolation  from  the  world  was  robbed  of  its  pains 
and  yielded  only  pleasure. 

The  same  miracle  that  haloed  common  things 


;8  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

for  the  Swedish  girl  wrought  in  Donaghey  a  desire 
for  home-building,  to  which  he  yielded  as  unthink 
ingly  as  the  sparrow  does.  He  had  patient,  skil 
ful  fingers  and  the  delight  of  the  dextrous  in  using 
them.  To  beautify  the  interior  of  the  cottage 
became  the  hobby  of  his  leisure  hours,  and  the 
unpainted  redwood  with  its  beautiful  rippling 
grain — like  the  motion  of  a  wave  mirrored  in  sub 
stantial  wood — responded  to  every  lover-like 
touch  he  spent  upon  it.  For  hours  in  the  even 
ing,  while  Overman  read  aloud,  and  all  day  Sun 
day  he  would  sit  finishing  a  cabinet  he  had  set  into 
the  wall,  perfecting  the  polish  on  a  door  panel,  or 
inventing  means  for  lightening  Hilma's  labor.  It 
was  his  genius  intuitively  to  know  the  secrets  of 
the  joiner's  trade  and  to  display  taste  in  this  direc 
tion  that  he  was  guiltless  of  in  any  other,  and  the 
bent  of  his  mind  made  this  employment  the  means 
best  adapted  to  rest  and  refresh  him.  Jessie  Incell 
used  to  let  her  eyes  wander  from  Hilma's  gentle 
activity  to  the  perfection  of  repose  suggested  by 
the  little  Irishman's  absorbed  stillness  while  only 
his  hands  moved,  and  she  said  to  herself  that  these 
two  complemented  each  other  so  exquisitely  that 
it  seemed  but  one  life  both  lived. 

To  both  Overman  and  Jessie  the  zest  of  dis 
covering  that  there  was  nothing  so  trivial  in  the 
life  or  thought  of  the  one  that  did  not  outweigh  in 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  79 

interest  for  the  other  every  deed  and  fact  in  man 
kind's  experience — to  both  this  experience  came 
as  a  revelation  so  gentle  and  so  gradual  that  neither 
realized  the  consequences  of  yielding  to  it.  On 
the  evening  when  they  were  stirred  most  strongly 
to  self-revelation,  they  had  been  sitting  out  alone 
in  front  of  the  cottage. 

"It's  your  turn  now,"  Miss  Incell  said,  as  she 
finished  a  quick,  humorously  insincere  account  of 
herself.  "Confess  now  and  begin  at  the  begin 
ning.  'I  was  born  of  poor  but  honest  parents.'  ' 

"Poor?  Yes.  Very,  very  poor.  Honest?  I 
believe  so — but  do  you  really  care  to  know?"  he 
asked,  the  absorbed  interest  in  her  piquant,  alert 
face  lending  a  value  to  all  he  said  that  he  had 
never  dreamed  it  might  possess  for  any  human 
being.  "But  it  isn't  pleasant.  My  childhood  and 
boyhood  was  the  squalid,  oppressed  youth  of  the 
wretched  poor.  I  cannot  look  back  and  see  my 
self — even  in  my  earliest  memory — without  the 
weight  of  responsibility,  without  the  tugging  con 
sciousness  of  being  ill-fed,  half-clothed  and  on  the 
verge  of  that  terribly  true  poverty  whose  meaning 
only  the  real  poor  know;  and  of  them,  the  self- 
supporting  children  of  the  poor  know  best.  I 
would  not  have  you  realize  what  it  was,"  he  added 
gently. 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  that  fearful  pity, 


8o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

that  panting  sympathy  that  a  woman  has  for  the 
dead  and  gone  suffering  of  the  boy  who  was  father 
to  the  man  she  listens  to,  the  man  she  yearns  to 
shield  as  his  mother  might. 

"No,  I  would  not  have  you  know  what  it  was 
to  me,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "and  yet  you 
and  every  other  human  being  ought  to  be  made  to 
realize  what  it  is  to-day,  now,  to  otb^r  children. 
The  bite  of  winter  and  the  cursed,  fet  d  breath  of 
summer,  the  being  sick  and  young  and  hopeless, 
the  fearful  definiteness  of  the  consequence  of  not 
working  or  not  being  able  to  get  work,  the  foul 
knowledge  of  vice  and  crime  thrust  into  one's 
face  like  a  nauseating  rag  that  cuts  one  off  from 
the  pure  air,  and  the  awful — God,  the  awful 
sight  of  suffering  women  and  children!  Do  you 
wonder  I'm  a  crank  ?  Why,  a  crank  is  only  one 
who  knows  these  things  and  can't  forget  them." 

He  had  a  voice,  Jessie  Incell  said  to  herself 
that,  however  great  the  wretchedness  its  words 
depicted,  could  not  lose  its  tang  of  hope  and  de 
fiance.  It  was  this  note  of  courage  sounding  like 
a  bugle  call  in  the  very  thick  of  defeat,  that  called 
to  her  despite  her  easy  pessimism. 

"Go  on — tell  me,"  she  murmured. 

"You  can  understand,  can't  you,"  he  asked 
appealingly, "  how  such  a  child,  such  a  boy,  such 
a  man,  who  had  raised  himself  at  last  above  the 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  81 

mire,  would  be  haunted  by  the  faces,  the  cries  of 
the  damned  he  had  left  still  floundering,  choking 
in  it  ?  And  you  can  see  how  such  a  man — know 
ing,  as  the  poor  do  know  how  small  is  the  margin 
upon  which  human  beings  can  exist,  how  very, 
very  little  suffices — should  risk  all  he  had  when 
an  idealistic  scheme  that  promised  wholesale 
redemption  from  earthly  misery  came  like  a  revel 
ation  to  him  ?  I'd  like  you  to  understand- 
not  merely  to  fasten  an  easy  name  to  me  and  pass 
on — please." 

She  threw  out  her  hand  with  a  quick  deprecating 
gesture  and  he  went  on. 

"You  see  when  one  has  watched  blind  philan 
thropy  beggar  beggars  still  more  effectually;  when 
one  has  seen  the  wretches  fall  back  into  the  bog 
through  sheer  lack  of  strength  to  take  the  helping 
hand  that's  held  out  to  them;  when  one  has  learned 
the  depths  of  human  depravity,  the  limits  of  human 
weakness,  the  boundlessness  of  human  suffering, 
if  he  thinks  at  all,  he  must  become  one  of  two 
things — a  despairing  pessimist  or  a  dogged  dreamer 
who  is  bound  to  persist  in  his  search  for  a  remedy 
through  disappointment  and  defeat,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  is  unable  to  desist.  He  is  possessed 
by  a  passion,  a  madness  that  makes  him  sure  there 
is  but  one  thing  in  the  world  worthy  man's  best 
thought  and  full  strength,  the  making  of  it  fit  to 


82  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

live  in.  He'll  be  made  the  tool — as  I  was — of 
schemers;  his  very  idealism  will  lead  him  into 
such  company  as  will  put  his  ideals  to  shame; 
he'll  die  with  his  victory  un-won,  which  isn't  a 
calamity,  for — for  himself — he  has  lived  in  har 
mony  with  the  ideals  set  before  him,  and  there 
can  be  no  earthly  heaven  finer  than  this.  As  for 
that  for  which  he  has  worked,  there  will  be  many 
men  after  him,  born  as  he  was  with  a  specialized 
bent  in  this  one  direction;  humanity-lovers,  who 
follow  the  tendency  of  their  natures  as  inevitably 
as  the  workers  in  a  bee-hive  follow  theirs  and 
fulfill  the  end  for  which  they  were  created.  There 
simply  must  be  a  better  world  for  future  genera 
tions  to  live  in.  Some  men  die  and  raise  the  stand 
ard  of  living  and  thinking  a  millionth  of  a  human 
inch  by  the  lever  of  spiritualized  sentiment. 
Others  live  and  are  not  sure  whether  they  are  lift 
ing  or  depressing  the  scale.  It  drops  in  time  with 
the  weight  of  human  selfishness  and  stupidity, 
but  it  is  bound  to  rise  again — even  though  it  fall 
again — because  of  the  irresistible  strength  of  the 
whole  of  a  man's  genius  when  it  is  unswervingly 
pointed  in  one  direction,  and  because  that  man  is 
but  one  of  many  fashioned,  like  himself,  to  be  an 
instrument.  Dare  one  belittle  the  effect  of  such 
work  ?  Can  you  even  assert  that  it  is  hopeless  ? 
The  fool  who  goes  about  it,  to  my  notion,  is  a 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  83 

thousand  times  wiser  than  the  wise  man  who 
ignores  it.  The  doctors  who  prescribe  unavail- 
ingly  for  it  are  scientifically  nearer  perfect  under 
standing  of  it  than  those  who  selfishly  pass  it  by. 
I'd  rather  ease  a  child's  back  of  his  load  for  an 
hour  than  win  the  greatest  victory  history  has 
recorded.  I'd  rather  be  a  prop  to  a  drunkard's 
will — a  prop  that  will  sustain  him  once,  though 
he  fall  a  hundred  other  times — than  write  the 
Bible  under  Jehovah's  dictation.  It's  an  age  of 
specialization,  Miss  Incell,  I  was  born  to  be  a 
crank.  Just  how  I  shall  go  about  it  the  next 
time  I  don't  know,  but  I  do  know  that  the  same 
ardor,  the  same  confidence  that  got  me  into  Senn's 
clutches  will  accompany  the  process  when  I  get  on 
my  feet  and  try  again." 

There  was  a  lighter  tone  in  his  voice  as  he 
finished  speaking,  an  unworded  apology  for  the 
seriousness  of  his  subject.  But  his  earnestness, 
the  saturation  of  his  soul  with  the  thing  that  pos 
sessed  him  stirred  her  as  she  would  not  have  be 
lieved  a  month  ago  she  could  be  moved. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  wistfully,  "how  much  of 
himself  a  man  has  the  right  to  will  away  from— 
from  his  relations  ?  Shouldn't  there  be  a  moral 
law  to  cover  such  a  question  ?  I've  met  your 
brothers,  you  know,"  she  added  in  a  tone  that  was 
more  characteristic.  "You're  a  big  family,  you 


84  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

cranks,  and  in  a  way  I  have  a  specialty  myself— 
which  is  studying  and  serving  up  you  specialists. 
I'll  admit  that  one  crank  washes  another  out  of  my 
mind;  they  follow  upon  my  attention  in  such 
quick  succession,  and  I  do  lose  interest  in  the 
particular  crankiness  that  absorbs  each  of  them. 
But  I  have  never  gone  away  from  an  interview 
with  one  of  them  that  I  haven't  found  myself, 
(in  spite  of  my  determination  always  to  remain  a 
spectator)  brooding  over  the  family  relations  of 
the  crank  in  question.  It's  the  mother  of  a  crank 
that  most  interests  me.  In  my  fancy  she  dwells — 
a  whole  colony  of  her,  sonned  by  varied  fads  em 
bodied  in  flesh  and  blood — a  creature  that  is  every 
thing — proud,  miserable,  loving,  disappointed— 
everything  but  happy.  What  becomes  of  the 
fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  brothers  and — and  wives 
of  cranks  ?  What  is  their  place  in  Crankology  ?" 

She  could  always  make  him  smile,  and  it  would 
have  disturbed  Miss  Incell  not  a  little  could  she 
have  known  how  well  worth  while  it  seemed  to 
her  to  be  the  cause  of  one  of  those  short,  amused 
laughs  with  which  he  greeted  this  gay  little  sally 
of  hers. 

"I  don't  know — from  experience,"  he  said,  and 
then  more  seriously,  "my  father  died  before  I  was 
born;  he  was  killed  in  the  mine  and  he  left,  merci 
fully,  but  one  child  for  mother  to  struggle  for  in  her 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  85 

poverty.  And  we  did  struggle,  we  two.  It  was  a 
campaign  without  truce,  in  which  the  din  of  battle 
deafened  us  by  day  and  haunted  our  dreams  at 
night.  She — was  killed  in  action — after  a  gallant 
fight,  early  in  the  engagement.  And  for  years 
before  I  even  knew  that  the  fight  was  on,  she  had 
never  taken  off  her  armor.  It's  a  thing  like  that— 
the  irrevocably  past  misery  and  death  of  one's 
best-beloved,  weaker  than  oneself,  whom  one 
might  stay  and  comfort  now,  if  it  were  not  too  late, 
if  she  had  only  waited  till  one  was  strong  enough— 
that  makes  tigers  of  men — or  altruists — cranks. 
For  it  requires  no  feat  of  imagination,  no  stretching 
of  sympathy  to  know  that  other  boys  are  watching 
their  mothers  go  down  under  the  blows  and 
shocks  of  war  on  weaker  humanity.  And  other 
tender,  brave  eyes  are  glazing  in  death,  their  last, 
half-conscious  thought  a  prayer  for  the  poor  little 
comrade  in  arms  .  .  .  Oh!" 

He  did  not  see  how  almost  maternal  was  the 
look  with  which  this  girl  regarded  him,  for  he  was 
gazing  far  off"  into  the  past.  When  he  did  throw 
back  his  head,  as  though  physically  to  put  away 
memories  that  overwhelmed  him,  and  turned  to 
her,  her  eyes  were  downcast  and  she  was  asking 
half-timidly, 

"But — what  can  one  do  ?" 

"Do!"  he  cried — the  question  got  him  to  his 


86  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

feet.  "There's  only  one  thing  to  do,  there  can  be 
but  one — To  say  the  thing  your  soul  says,  to  live 
the  life  your  heart  wills,  to  die  the  death  your  imag 
ination  approves  and  your  spirit  sanctions!  That's 
what  one  can  do.  To  live  the  inner  life  that 
possesses  one,  openly  in  all  its  depth,  in  all  its 
changefulness,  in  all  its  seeming  lawlessness.  Yet 
to  keep  one  law,  the  highest,  the  only  one;  to 
keep  that  inviolate,  changing  freely,  fully  as  it 
appears  to  you  to  change,  or  as  you,  in  your 
greater  light,  learn  to  interpret  it — the  law  of 
individual  liberty,  the  centre  of  the  soul's  gravity 
about  which  the  world  revolves.  Do!  Why,  'put 
your  creed  into  your  deed.'  Dare  to  do  the  thing 
that  tempts  you,  toward  which  your  whole  being 
yearns  and  turns  with  a  strength  that  is  irresistible. 
The  pity  is  when  the  impulse  is  only  almost 
irresistible.  Oh,  if  only  every  strong  impulse 
toward  honesty,  toward  beauty,  toward  altruism 
that  moves  one  would  make  its  history,  not  only 
in  our  own  lives,  but  in  others'.  If  only  no  man 
could  withstand  the  force  that  impels  him  to  do 
this,  to  be  that,  and  later  another  person,  another 
thing.  Dare  to  be  free.  Free  to  do  the  thing  you 
crave  to  do  and  that  craves  the  doing.  Free  to 
live  in  that  higher  realm  where  none  is  fit  to  criti 
cize  save  one's  self.  Free  to  scorn  ridicule,  to 
face  contempt,  to  brave  remorse.  Free  to  give 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  87 

life  to  the  one  human  soul  that  can  demand  and 
grant  such  a  boon — one's  own  self.  To  scorn  a 
shame  and  strike  a  knave  and  openly  curse  a 
time-server.  To  lift  this  one  up,  not  because  he  is 
weak,  but  because  his  cause  is  just  and  as  such 
demands  your  service  as  no  king,  however  great, 
no  god  however  high  commanded  subject  however 
loyal  and  lowly,  nor  devotee,  however,  bigoted. 
To  give  to  the  cause  that  claims  your  reverence 
swift  complete  subservience.  To  feel  to  the 
full  every  passion,  ethical  and  emotional,  of  which 
you  are  capable.  To  believe  and  love  and  suffer 
and  be  disillusioned.  To  be  false,  if  necessary  to 
be  true  to  yourself.  Yet  being  true  to  yourself 
you  could  not  be  false,  for  no  one  can  promise 
more  than  he  can  fulfill.  To  live,  to  live!  To 
know  no  coward  half-life  where  one's  greater 
self,  stifled  and  loathing,  struggles  though  chained 
to  and  gagged  by  the  lesser  one.  To  die  a  martyr, 
if  that  be  necessary,  or  live  an  outlaw.  To  suffer 
for  principle,  while  it  is  principle  to  you,  and  to  dis 
regard  it  the  moment  it  loses  significance  for  you. 
To  foster  to  its  fullest  flourishing  the  flower  of 
your  soul  till  it  develops  such  strange  and  wonder 
ful  growths  as  even  you  did  not  dream  of.  To  do 
everything  that  fancy — fancy  which  is  the  inspired 
soul  dreaming — dictates;  to  do  it  regardless,  freely, 
joyfully,  with  never  a  cowardly  second  thought, 


88  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

but  to  act  upon  impulse  and  instinct  as  upon  a 
clarion  call.  To  be  all  that  you  would.  To  live 
all  the  lives  that  are  in  you.  No  longer  to  train 
this  side  and  restrain  that,  to  clip  and  mold  and 
mar,  as  a  Japanese  gardener  cripples  and  mars  the 
plant  he  dwarfs,  as  we  dwarf  and  cripple  the  souls 
within  us  and  make  a  monstrosity,  not  a  human 
poem  of  the  material  given  us. 

"To  live  this  life,  these  lives,  and  to  die  unre- 
gretful,  however  unsuccessful  as  the  world  reckons 
success.  For  there  really  is  but  one  failure — the 
failure  to  live  your  own  life,  your  life,  your  only 
one.  Failing  this  you  live  none  at  all.  You  are 
only  a  shadow  of  another  and  often,  more's  the 
irremediable  pity,  of  another  shadow. 

"Oh,  never  to  know  myself  a  coward  and 
pitifully  seek  self-excuse!  Never  to  feel  that  soul- 
devouring  contempt  of  the  thing  the  world  and  I 
have  made  of  myself!  Never  to  walk  with  shamed 
eyes  before  one  braver  than  myself,  and  holier, 
because  not  a  traitor  to  himself.  Never,  never  to 
say  Tt  might  have  been',  but  'It  was'  or  'it  is'  or 
'It  shall  be.'  To  testify  to  the  truth  when  it  is  the 
truth  to  me,  so  long  as  it  remains  the  truth — this 
only.  I  have  tired  you.  Oh,  see,  what  a  miserable, 
selfish  crank  I  am!"  he  cried  remorsefully. 

"No,"  her  voice  was  very  weary  and  she  was 
looking  at  him  with  envy  and  with  pity,  "but  I 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  89 

believe   I    am    tired — of  myself.     Will  you  help 
me  to  go  in  now  ?     It  must  be  late. " 

Out  here  under  the  trees  the  dusk  had  come 
upon  them  almost  without  their  realizing  it. 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  he  said  as  he  stooped 
to  lift  and  carry  her  into  the  house.  "I  am  an 
ill-balanced  talker  whom  a  sympathetic  listener 
causes  to  topple  over.  I  could  only  speak  so  to 
you— I  have  hardly  said  as  much  to  myself — but 
you  can  see  now  what  egoists  we  who  think  our 
selves  altruists  really  are." 

She  did  not  answer  except  to  wish  him  good 
night,  as  he  helped  her  to  the  lounge  and  went  off 
to  find  Donaghey.  Hilma  came  in  after  a  little, 
her  sewing  in  her  busy  hands,  but  Jessie  had  un 
dressed  without  her  aid  and  was  lying  with  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  head. 

"Just  stay  and  sew  here  a  bit,  won't  you, 
Hilma?"  she  asked  when  her  nurse  would  have 
withdrawn. 

"I  am  afraid  I  will  keep  you  awake." 

"No,  you  won't.  I  can't  go  to  sleep  just  yet. 
Do  you  remember,  Hilma,  when  you  were  little 
being  afraid  sometimes  to  go  to  sleep  alone  ?  I'm 
feeling  little  to-night,  almost  contemptibly  small, 
and  I'm  afraid.  There  are  nights  when  one 
had  better  shut  the  door  on  things  that  are 
trying  to  think  themselves.  I'm  not  ready  to 


9o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

entertain;  my  house  is  not  in  order.       Let's  talk, 
Hilma." 

The  Swedish  girl  obediently  drew  out  her 
basket  and  Jessie  turned  toward  her,  her  head 
pillowed  on  her  arm. 

"I'm  getting  well,  you  know." 

"Yes." 

"And  it  won't  be  long  before  I'm  leaving  Ar 
cadia." 

"Arcadia?"  Hilma  repeated  puzzled.  "Oh! 
—I  am  sorry." 

"Yes,  that's  why  I'm  glad.  Never  mind,  but 
listen.  Before  I  go  you  and  I  have  got  to  fight 
out  the  battle  the  men  are  too  cowardly  to  have 
anything  to  do  with.  You  know  what  I  mean— 
the  idea  of  your  pretending  anything,  you  milk- 
white  baby!" 

The  Swedish  girl  dropped  her  hands  help 
lessly  in  her  lap. 

"Yes,"  Miss  Incell  went  on,  "you've  got  to 
let  me  pay  you  for  at  least — 

"No,  I  cannot." 

"Yes,  you  can  if  you  try,"  she  laughed.  Con 
tact  with  the  simplicity,  the  gentle  directness  of 
this  girl's  nature  always  soothed  her.  "See,  how 
amiable  it  was  of  me  to  stay  here  trusting  to  your 
generosity  not  to  let  me  remain  in  a  false  position." 

"I  do  not  understand." 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  91 

"I  know  you  don't." 

"Talk  to  Anthony  about  it."  begged  Hilma. 

"You  fraud,  you  know  he  insists  the  whole 
grand  establishment  is  yours!" 

"To  Will  then,"  she  said  faintly.  She  bent 
her  face  over  her  sewing,  like  a  child  that  doesn't 
wish  to  meet  clear-sighted  eyes. 

"Will!  Hilma,  how  can  you  beg  the  question 
like  this?" 

Hurriedly  the  Swedish  girl  rose,  putting  her 
sewing  away.  But  Miss  Incell  reached  out  and 
pulled  her  back  to  her  rocking  chair. 

"  I  won't  insist,  Hilma,  not  to-night  anyway,  if 
you'll  only  sit  awhile.  You've  got  lots  of  sewing 
to  do,  haven't  you  ?'  And  you'll  sew  in  the  kitchen 
if  you  don't  here  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hilma  penitently. 

"All  right,  do  sew  here  then.  I'll  say  good 
night,  for  I  may  fall  asleep  and  forget  it.  But 
just  you  sit  there,  like  a  little  younger  mother  of 
me,  and  I'll  slip  off  to  sleep  perhaps  like  a  good 
girl— eh?" 

"Yes — all  right.  I  will  pleased  be  if  the  light 
disturbs  you  not." 

Miss  Incell  shook  her  head.  She  lay  with 
closed  eyes  her  arms  above  her  head,  the  frill  of 
her  sleeve  falling  away  from  her  well-turned 
wrists,  the  frill  at  her  throat  rising  and  falling 


92  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

with  her  bosom's  rhythmic  breathing.  She  was 
not  thinking.  She  was  not  sleeping.  She  was 
listening  in  fancy  as  she  had  listened  in  fact.  But 
Hilma's  gentle  presence,  the  quiet  of  the  night, 
the  air  of  peace  and  domesticity  that  pervaded 
the  place  all  conspired  to  rob  the  words  she  heard 
again  of  their  restless  burdening  thought,  and  to 
bring  to  her  ears,  like  the  melodious  throb  of  an 
organ's  song  robbed  by  distance  of  the  verse  that 
accompanies  it,  only  the  sound  of  a  voice  that 
woke  echoes  in  her  heart. 

But  she  lay  so  long  quite  still  that  the  Swedish 
girl  thought  she  slept  and,  after  a  silent  interlude 
of  watching,  Hilma  laid  aside  the  gingham  gown 
she  was  making  and,  lifting  a  basket  of  white 
sewing  from  under  the  chintz  drapery  of  the  table 
where  it  had  been  hidden,  she  bent  over  it  with  an 
absorption  that  was  but  the  sequel  of  the  dream 
the  woman  lying  on  the  lounge  was  dreaming. 

The  sudden  consciousness  that  she  was  so 
dreaming  came  all  at  once  to  Jessie  Incell  and 
her  eyes  opened  with  what  might  have  been  a 
click  of  determination,  if  it  had  been  accompanied 
by  sound.  She  was  no  dreamer,  but  a  practical, 
busy  woman  who  saw  herself,  half  in  terror,  half 
in  amusement,  guilty  of  a  reverie,  the  significance 
of  which  she  was  unwilling  to  admit  even  to  her 
waking  self.  But  what  she  saw  in  Hilma's  hands 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  93 

dissipated  all  thought  of  herself.  She  stared 
unbelieving  and  stared  again  and  sat  up  at  last 
still  staring. 

"  Hilma ! "  she  cried.     "  Oh— Hilma ! " 

There  was  mockery  in  her  voice  and  tenderness 
and  exultation  and  shocked,  incredulous  surprise. 

With  a  start  the  Swedish  girl  sprang  to  her  feet. 
The  little  garment,  the  first  crude  covering  for 
miniature  humanity's  nakedness,  over  which  she 
had  been  bending  secretively,  adoringly,  fell 
from  her  hands,  and  she  buried  in  them  her  face, 
whose  delicate  skin  was  suffused  by  a  burning 
wave  of  color. 

"Oh,  Hilma — and  you  could  refuse  to  let 
me  help!" 

Something  in  Miss  Incell's  tone  gave  the  girl 
courage  to  look  up.  She  saw  her  friend's  arms 
outstretched  and  above  them  the  rippling  tender 
ness  of  a  face  more  given  to  express  lighter 
emotions,  and  she  felt  the  mockery  washed  away 
in  a  flood  of  sweet  sentiment. 

''Jessie — Jessie,"  she  stammered,  falling  on 
her  knees  before  the  couch  and  using  her  guest's 
name  for  once  with  ease  and  naturalness,  "what 
could  I  do? — I — I  so  loved  him  .  .  ." 

Jessie  held  the  abased  blonde  head  tight  in  her 
arms.  It  was  some  moments  before  the  Swedish 
girl  raised  her  shamed,  happy  eyes,  and  then 


94  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

from  her  lips  fell  a  timid  word  that  expressed  the 
whole  ineffectual  struggle  to  live  up  to  foster  ideals, 
which  she  and  her  husband  had  adopted  and 
tried  so  hard  to  make  their  own. 

"But  Anthony!"  she  whispered  piteously. 

Miss  Incell's  arms  relaxed.  That  wailing 
accent  quite  unwomanned  her.  Her  shoulders 
shook  and  she  fell  back  upon  her  pillow  convulsed 
with  silent  laughter. 


CHAPTER  VII 

•p\EAN  MORGAN   held   in    his    outstretched 

hand  a  rosewood  crutch. 

"Miss  Jessie  Incell,  A.  M.—  maid  of  arts, 
or,  arts  with  an  apostrophe,  if  you  prefer  the 
cockney  origin  of  the  word. "  (It  was  Mr.  Morgan's 
way  to  play  about  his  subject,  to  "chase  his 
journalistic  tail"  as  the  reporters  of  the  Inquirer 
put  it).  "On  behalf  of  the  honorable  fraternity  of 
which  I  am  one — and  you  are,  too — permit  me  to 
present  to  you  this  token  of  the  local  room's 
esteem  .  .  .  (Tut,  tut,  young  woman,  haven't 
you  attended  banquets  enough  to  know  that  the 
giftee  never  accepts  the  gift  till  the  gifter  has  had 
time  to  make  his  speech  ?  .  .  .  On  this  felici 
tous  occasion,  fellow  citizens" — as  Miss  Incell 
sat  back  again  upon  the  couch,  Morgan  turned  to 
include  in  a  pompous  bow  poor  Hilma,  who  stood 
by  with  a  bewildered,  smiling  face,  and  Donaghey 
who  was  appreciatively  a-grin.  "On  this  occasion 
I  rise  to  express  to  you  my  own  and  your  own 
feelings  on  the  subject  of  yellow  journalisttes — 
with  two  Ys'  and  an  V.  This,  my  friends,  is  the 
woman's  century;  so  called  because  the  lydies  are 
engaged  in  out-heroding  Herod  all  over  this  broad 
free  land,  over  which  the  star  spangled  banner  of 
freedom  and  fake  may  ever  wave. — Applause! 

95 


96  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

.  .  .  (It's  the  place  for  it,  you  know  it  is, 
Jessie  Incell.)  .  .  .  To  continue;  although 
man  in  his  timid  conservative  way  has  tried  to 
feel  the  sensational  popular  pulse  and  cater  to 
that  inherent  yellowness  which  knows  that  fiction 
is  stranger  than  fact  and  loves  it  for  that  reason, 
yet  it  has  remained  for  Woman  to  realize  the  very 
acme,  the  perfection,  the  quintessence — I  may  say, 
the  very  yellow  jaundice  of  journalism  .  .  . 
(Cries  of  'Hear!  Hear!'  'Morgan  for  President!1 
etc.,  etc.)  .  .  .  My  friends,  I  thank  you. 
Who  is  it  that  first  went  up  in  a  balloon  to  inter 
view  a  comet — the  lady  before  me,  Miss  Jessie 
Incell!  Who,  braving  the  perils  of  subterranean 
disaster,  and  nausea,  descended  into  the  very 
bowels  of  the  earth  to  inquire  how  its  vermiform 
appendage  was  taking  its  sudden  publicity  ?  Who, 
standing  fearlessly  beside  a  lynch-ed  Negro,  took 
down  in  shorthand  from  his  purpling  lips  the 
indispensable  information  of  how  it  feels  to  be 
burned  alive  ?  Who  accompanied  a  neighboring 
prince  and  princess  upon  their  honeymoon  ?  Who 
— but  why  multiply  instances  ?  Who  but  Jessie 
Incell  knows  it  all  ?  Who  but  Miss  Incell  advises 
us  how  to  propose,  whom  to  marry,  what  infant 
food  industry  to  patronize!  She  accompanies  us 
from  the  craddle  to  the  grave,  and  her  very  next 
detail,  I've  a  hunch,  will  be  to  write  a  racy  eight- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  97 

hundred  words  giving  Jehovah's  opinion  of  the 
unparalleled  enterprise  of  the  Inquirer  in  sending 
Miss  Jessie  Incell  (capitals  five-inches  long)  in 
bloomers  and  the  latest  model  flying  machine  all 
the  way  aloft  and  back  in  time  for  the  first  edition! 

"  My  friends,  I  ask  you  to  drink  with  me  to  the 
health  of  Miss  Jessie  Incell's — ankle.  The  toast 
will  be  drunk  standing  on  one  foot  out  of  respect 
to  our  distinguished  guest." 

The  speaker's  words  were  promptly  drowned 
in  applause  according  to  formula  and  Mr.  Morgan, 
bowing  to  right  and  left,  sat  down  flushed,  as  his 
manner  intimated,  writh  success. 

"Mr.  Chairman,  Mr.  Morgan,  Ladies  and  Fel 
low  sufferers,"  Miss  Incell  began,  rising  from 
her  couch  and  balancing  herself  on  her  new  crutch, 
"it  is  with  feelings — 

"Hear!  Hear!"  cried  Morgan.  "She  has 'em. 
Actually,  the  great  and  only  Jessie  Incell  has 
feelin's,  even  as  you  and  I!" 

"Feelings,"  continued  Miss  Incell  severely, 
"that  well  up  from  an  over-bulged  ankle — 

"Applause!  Cheers!  Laughter!"  shouted  Mor 
gan. 

" — that  I  rise  to.  .  .  Oh,  Mr.  Overman, 
come  here  and  see  the  pretty  thing  the  boys 
in  the  office  have  sent  me!  I'll  be  sorry  when 
Fm  no  longer  lame  enough  to  use  it." 


98  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Morgan  turned  quickly  and  faced  Overman 
standing  at  the  door. 

"By  all  that's  beautiful,  'tis  Adonis!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Oh,  how  yellow  you  are!"  Miss  Incell  turned 
upon  him.  "And  not  only  by  profession,  Dean 
Morgan,  but  by  nature." 

"I  really  am  not  so  lovely  as  I've  been  painted," 
Overman  said  coming  into  the  room,  "nor  so 
holy.  For  one  thing,  I  resent  being  considered 
a  vain  fool." 

Morgan  looked  up  quickly.  The  answer  and 
its  tone  were  unexpected. 

"I  really  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  good- 
naturedly,  "but  how  was  I  to  know?" 

"  By  putting  yourself  in  my  place." 

The  journalist  made  a  motion  that  declared  the 
impossibility  of  his  changing  identities,  even  in 
fancy,  with  one  so  unlike  himself. 

The  gesture  irritated  Overman;  it  teemed  with 
that  intangible  insolence  which  marked  the  news 
paperman's  manner  to  those  whom  he  suspected 
of  being  lacking  in  brains  or  savoir  faire  or  the 
degree  of  up-to-dateness  that  commanded  his 
respect.  But  before  Overman  could  speak,  Miss 
Incell,  stamping  with  her  uninjured  foot  upon  the 
uncarpeted  floor,  threw  herself  mentally  between 
them. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  99 

"Don't  thrash  him — Anthony."  She  used  his 
first  name  deliberately,  challenging  Morgan's  eyes 
which  met  hers  inquisitively.  "Not  that  a  beating 
wouldn't  do  him  good,  but  because  it  would  imply 
that  you  hadn't  forgiven  me  and  forgotten  that 
impertinent  old  story.  Mr.  Morgan,  you  don't 
deserve  it,  but  I  am  going  to  introduce  you  to  Mr. 
Overman.  I  thought  you  two  had  met  before. 
Now,  do  look  at  my  present,  Anthony." 

She  put  the  well-turned  light  little  crutch  into 
Overman's  hands,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm  and 
limping  back  to  the  lounge.  She  pointed  out  the 
velvet-cushioned  top  and  the  silver  plate  upon  the 
side  with  its  inscription,  "To  One  Wounded  on 
the  Battlefield,"  and  explained  at  length  to  him 
what  the  local  room  meant.  She  dilated  upon 
the  varied  characters  of  the  "boys,"  who  made  up 
the  news  staff  of  the  Inquirer,  their  different 
specialties  and  the  "scoops"  each  was  credited 
with.  And  she  deceived  only  the  guileless  Hilma 
by  her  loquacity,  for  to  the  rest  her  intention  was 
quite  apparent. 

But  to  see  the  self-possessed  Miss  Incell  obvi 
ously  talking  against  time  was  more  than  Overman 
could  bear.  As  soon  as  a  pause  made  it  possible 
he  turned  to  Morgan,  appealing  to  him  for  in 
formation  concerning  the  rumored  strike  of 
teamsters  in  San  Francisco,  and  when  she  heard 


ioo  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

the  voice  of  the  two  raised  in  earnest  debate  over 
the  labor  question,  Jessie  rose  with  a  relieved 
sigh  and  hobbled  over  to  Hilma. 

The  Swedish  girl  was  bending  over  Miss  Incell's 
trunk  which  was  packed  nearly  to  the  brim.  Each 
article  of  clothing  that  she  laid  away,  her  long, 
slim  hands  patted  caressingly.  Her  honest  gray 
eyes,  which  she  lifted  to  Jessie's  face,  were  brim 
ming  with  tears.  „ 

'The  pine  pillow  we  all  have  gathered  that 
last  day  in  the  woods — it  here  is,"  she  said 
with  an  unsteady  voice.  "The  wild  flowers  you 
have  pressed,  on  this  side  are.  And — and— 

"Oh,  you  little  goose,  you  dear  little  goose!" 
Miss  Incell  whispered  putting  an  arm  about  her. 
"I  just  love  to  have  you  cry  because  I'm  going.  Do 
you  know,  Hilma,  that  I  can't  remember  any 
body's  crying  at  being  separated  from  me  ?  The 
hotel-keepers  regret  my  going  but — but  really  you 
mustn't." 

"It  will  so  lonely  be  without  you." 

"Pshaw! — Hilma  Donaghey,  you  know  you'll 
never  be  lonely  in  all  your  life — now." 

The  Swedish  girl  smiled  through  her  tears  and 
while  she  and  Miss  Incell  stepped  aside  for  a  mo 
ment,  Donaghey  strapped  the  trunk  and  carried 
it  out  to  the  wagon  that  Anthony  had  driven  up 
to  the  door. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  101 

It  seemed  to  Jessie  Incell  when  she  looked  back 
upon  it,  that  she  had  been  living  long,  long  days 
of  undisturbed  companionship,  of  peace,  of  idyllic 
content;  and  that  suddenly  Time,  as  though  to 
make  up  for  the  lost  hours,  had  caught  her 
up  in  a  whirl  of  preparation  of  which  every  second 
had  to  be  accounted  for.  Her  whispered  colloquy 
with  Hilma  was  all  too  short  for  the  heartfelt  words 
these  two  had  to  say.  Then  the  younger  woman 
helped  her  on  with  her  jacket  and  hat,  as  a  mother 
might  the  great  girl  she  was  sending  off  to  college; 
the  mother  instinct  spoke  in  every  act  of  the 
Swedish  girl  in  those  days,  it  illumined  her  fair 
face,  and  made  her  look  upon  the  unmarried 
woman  (before  whose  varied  experiences  and 
accomplishments  she  had  once  humbly  bowed 
down)  as  a  child  to  be  protected  and  tended. 

It  was  Hilma's  nature  to  spend  herself  in  lov 
ing  ministry;  to  love  the  creature  she  waited  upon, 
and  to  wait  upon  the  one  she  loved.  Nature 
makes  such  mothers  now  and  then,  whose  in 
stinct  is  as  blind  and  as  irresistible  as  that  which 
haunts  the  eyes  of  a  lean  dog,  dominated  by  the 
mother-passion,  and  makes  them  terrible  to  meet. 
But  the  selfishness  a  deux  or  a  trois  which  the 
procreative  period  in  humanity  begets,  was  a 
thing  apart  from  this  woman.  She  had  always 
served,  willingly,  lovingly,  unreasoningly;  and 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

the  prospect  of  having  something  all  her  own 
upon  which  to  lavish  herself  rilled  her  with  a  gentle 
gratitude  that  made  the  whole  world  her  creditor. 
The  uneven-tempered  Irishman  who  had,  as  it 
were,  called  her  to  the  holy  ministry  of  maternity 
was  touched  and  troubled  by  her  devotion.  And 
she  watched  over  Anthony  with  the  prayerful 
care  that  devout  women  give  to  their  prophets;  a 
care  which  is  at  once  an  apology  for  their  own 
humbleness  and  an  exercise  of  religiosity.  But 
she  shamed  and  embarrassed  him  by  this  humility 
and  loving  watchfulness  over  his  comfort.  And 
the  meek  confession  of  sin  and  unworthiness  in 
her  every  tone  and  gesture  in  Overman's  presence, 
would  have  tempted  Miss  Incell  to  ridicule,  in  the 
days  that  were  done  now,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
fact  that  such  sincerity  and  frank  humility  had  in 
them  something  inherently  pathetic  that  mois 
tened  her  eye  in  spite  of  her  sense  of  humor. 

Indeed,  Miss  Incell's  vaunted  sense  of  humor, 
which,  Morgan  was  wont  to  say,  made  her  such  a 
good  fellow,  such  a  boon  companion  to  all  the  men 
who  knew  her,  deserted  her  that  last  evening  at 
Little  Gap,  though  she  tried  to  be  gay.  She  sent 
the  men  out  to  the  wagon  ahead  of  her  and  while 
Hilma  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  she  stood  a  moment 
alone  at  the  door  of  the  living  room.  Here  she 
had  lain  through  pleasant  sunny  mornings.  Here 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  103 

they  four  had  lived  their  simple  idyl  of  comrade 
ship.  Here  in  the  evenings  Hilma  had  sewed  and 
Donaghey  had  read  or  Anthony  had  talked  and 
she  had  listened.  She  looked  from  one  piece  to 
the  other  in  the  unpretentious  little  place,  at  the 
work  table,  the  latest  triumph  of  his  handiwork 
that  Donaghey  had  made  for  Hilma;  at  the  ferns 
Anthony  had  brought  back  from  the  mountains 
for  herself. 

"Good-bye,  Arcady, "  she  sighed  half-smiling, 
and  stretched  out  a  hand  to  it  in  the  dusk. 

Then  she  called  to  Anthony  and  Morgan  to  help 
her  down  the  steps  and  into  the  high  wagon,  and 
while  Hilma  drove  slowly  up  the  lane,  the  three 
men  walked  by  the  side.  Morgan  and  Overman 
were  still  discussing  the  threatened  strike  and  its 
possibilities.  The  newspaperman,  though  he  had 
been  connected  during  all  his  professional  life 
with  demagogic  journals,  was  an  aristocrat  at 
heart  and  by  instinct.  His  contempt  for  those  who 
ruled  the  people — a  disrespect  founded  upon  the 
thorough  knowledge  the  journalist  gets  of  politics 
behind  the  scenes — was  only  second  to  that  he 
had  for  the  people  who  permitted  themselves  to  be 
so  governed,  so  cheated,  so  betrayed.  He  gave 
his  opinions  in  private  with  that  freedom  with 
which  the  thinker  revenges  himself  upon  circum 
stances  that  forbid  the  public  utterance  of  them 


io4  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

and  the  vivid,  informal,  exaggerated  style  of  his 
speech  had  a  keen  attraction  for  Overman,  who 
was  familiar  with  such  arguments  as  Morgan  used 
only  in  the  rather  heavy,  pretentious  manner  of 
the  political  economist. 

When  Hilma  pulled  up  the  horses  at  the  rail 
road  tracks,  Morgan  was  launched  on  the  full 
tide  of  such  an  argument  as  he  delighted  in. 

"Let  it  come!"  he  sneered.  "Let  the  strike 
come,  the  bigger  the  better.  The  Inquirer  will 
go  blathering  mad  about  the  wrongs  of  the  people 
and  I'll  blather  with  it,  of  course.  But  I'll  wait, 
just  the  same,  to  see  them  get  the  worst  of  it  as 
they  always  do,  and  as  they  deserve  to  do.  They're 
a  lot  of  deluded  sheep,  perpetually  scampering 
about  in  a  panic,  and  driven  by  traitorous  sheep 
dogs  employed  by  their  master  and  enemy. 
They're  born  to  be  driven  and  beaten  down. 
They  haven't  sense  enough  to  submit  nor  strength 
enough  to  rebel — adequately.  And  they'll  wind 
up  ultimately  at  the  slaughterhouse  where  they're 
bound  for  anyway!" 

"I  say,  let  it  come,  too,"  Overman  cried.  He 
lifted  Jessie  out  upon  the  high  sidewalk,  which 
was  on  a  level  with  the  wagon's  seat.  His  hands 
were  gentle  and  steady  but  the  battle-ring  was  in 
his  voice.  "Every  strike's  a  good  one.  Every 
defeat  is  bejter  than  passive  non-resistance. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  105 

Every  victory  unsettles  you  and  such  men  as  think 
like  you,  if  only  a  trifle,  from  the  seat  you  fancy  is 
so  secure  upon  the  people's  backs.  They'll  not 
always  be  sheep,  you'll  find  out  some  day,  and  all 
the  false  shepherd  dogs  that  betray  their  confidence 
and  all  the  usurping  owners  that  fatten  on  their 
pelts  can't  continue  such  an  artificial  state  of 
society  forever." 

"They've  managed  to,  for  about  all  the  period 
of  the  world's  history  that  we've  records  of,"  re 
torted  Morgan. 

"With  an  occasional  oversetting  that  proved  the 
sheep  to  be  a  tiger." 

"But  to  be  caught  and  fettered  again  by  the 
same  old  chain  with  a  new  name." 

"But  to  be  comparatively  better  off  after  the 
second  chaining  than  before  the  first,"  insisted 
Overman. 

"  I  fail  to  see  the  betterment,"  said  Morgan 
shortly. 

"  That's  because  men  who  live  as  well  as  you 
bodily,  and  in  the  same  spiritual  atmosphere,  can 
neither  fathom  the  depths  of  misery  in  which  man 
can  yet  live,  nor  perceive  alleviations  in  a  black 
ness  of  despair  that  is  all  one  shade  to  eyes  like 
yours.  Why,  there  are  statistics  to  show— 

"  To  show  anything  on  any  side,  according  to 
the  interpretation  you  want  to  place  upon  them. 


io6  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Don't  say  '  statistics  '  to  me;  I've  made  'em  my 
self." 

"  Well,  I  haven't.  But  for  every  increase  in 
wages  wrenched  as  the  prize  of  victory— 

"There's  an  increase  in  the  cost  of  living  that 
leaves  the  victory  barren."  "Suppose  it  does 
partly  negative  the  material  victory  ?  It  cannot 
lessen  the  spiritual  gain  in  the  stimulus  to  others 
to  do  likewise  and  in  the  challenge  thrown  out 
to  men  who  think  to  justify  the  system.  In 
other  words,  if  you'll  permit  me,  men  like 
you  make  men  like  me.  You  are  the  type  of 
man  whose  very  conservatism  makes  radicals, 
reformers — cranks,  if  you  like.  It  is  your  very 
satisfaction  with  the  existing  state  of  things  that 
makes  it  intolerable  to  the  others  of  us.  The  few 
who  benefit  by  the  system  are  not  powerful  enough 
with  all  their  millions  to  make  permanent  the  topsy 
turvy  rule  of  the  many  working  for  the  few.  It  is 
you — the  great  body  of  such  men  as  you,  who 
make  nothing  not  even  spiritual  satisfaction  out  of 
it,  who  have  not  even  the  excuse  that  you  benefit  by 
it,  who  make  the  system  possible,  who  make  its 
continuance  probable — who  will  suffer  some  day 
as  fully,  as  legitimately  as  its  head  and  chief 
offenders  for  your  indifference,  for  your  positive 
conservatism,  for  your  sins  of  omission  and  the 
stodgy  mugwumpery " 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  107 

"But — Anthony  Overman!" 

The  interruption  came  from  Miss  Incell;  far  off 
in  the  hollow  in  the  forest  she  had  seen  the  glow  of 
the  headlight  on  the  coming  train. 

"You'll  pardon  the  indignation  in  my  tone," 
she  continued  lightly,  "but  if  you  had  been 
petted  and  babied  and  given  the  centre  of  the 
stage  as  I  have  for  six  weeks,  it  would  hurt 
your  vanity  a  bit  to  find  that  the  last  few  mo 
ments  of  your  stay  were  to  be  taken  up  by  a 
discussion  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  real 
problem — how  Little  Gap  is  going  to  get  on 
without  me." 

Overman  turned  quickly.  The  faint,  far-off 
scream  of  the  whistle  came  in  on  the  soft,  dark 
night. 

"You  see  how  she  is  spoiled,  Overman,"  said 
Morgan  with  a  short  laugh.  "She  is  always  in  a 
temper  when  her  story  is  not  on  the  first  page. 
Tell  her  quickly  that  life  will  be  a  waste  after  the 
train  leaves  to-night,  and  while  you're  doing  it  I'll 
go  on  and  see  if  they  did  reserve  the  drawing  room 
I  wired  for." 

Overman  held  out  his  hand  and  Miss  Incell  put 
hers  in  it,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  face  that  was 
at  once  troubled,  merry  and  vexed. 

"You  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  I  don't 
believe  life  can  be  a  waste  so  long  as  one  can  work. 


io8  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

But  I  needn't  try  to  tell  you,  Jessie,  how  we'll  miss 
you.  You  know  that." 

"  But  it's  such  a  satisfaction  to  be  told  the  things 

o 

one  knows,"  she  said,  a  hysterical  note  in  her  gay 
voice.  "  It's  only  being  told  the  things  one  doesn't 
know  that's  saddening." 

"Well," — he  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm  and 
she  found  she  could  walk  a  step  or  two,  relying 
upon  the  steady  support  he  gave.  "  Imagine  the 
forest,  Jessie,  without  the  trees,  and  the  sky 
without  the  stars,  and  the  kitchen  as  it  would  be 
without  Hilma  in  it,  and  the  day  without  an 
evening — you'll  see  then  what  life  looks  to  me 
after  you  are  gone. " 

She  waited  a  moment  as  though  half-doubtingly 
for  something  expected,  half-hopefully  to  prolong 
the  satisfaction  his  words  were  to  her. 

"But,"  she  began  as  he  remained  silent, 
"there  are  still  the  poor  whom  ye  have  always 
with  you." 

There  was  an  appeal  in  her  voice,  despite  its 
facetious  attempt,  that  she  could  not  hide. 

"You  wouldn't  rob  me  of  everything,  would  you, 
all  at  once  ?"  he  demanded  a  deeper  question  in  his 
voice  than  in  the  words. 

She  did  not  answer  immediately,  and  the  shriek 
ing  whistle  again  filled  in  the  pause. 

"Yes,"  she  said  suddenly,  "yes,  I  would.     I'd 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  109 

rob  you  of  everything  till  you  came  to  realize  how 
absurd  it  is  of  you  to  stay  buried  up  here.  Come 
down  to  the  city  and  work  for  your  ideas,  Anthony 
Overman.  There's  infinitely  more  misery  there 
if  that's  what  you  enjoy,  and  you  can  be  as  great 
a  crank  there  as  here." 

"You  tempt  me,"  he  laughed. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  said  with  sudden  sincerity. 
"I — personally  am  not  satisfied  to  lose  sight  of 
you.  One  doesn't  make  friends  so  often  that 
one  can  afford  to  let  them  go.  You're  the  first 
'  subject  '  of  mine  that  turned  out  to  be  a 
human  being — and  you're  not  very  human,  An 
thony.  Come  down — do — will  you  ?  I — want  you 
to." 

"Thank  you.     I  may." 

"You  say  that  as  though  I  were  the  veriest 
stranger  to  whom  politeness  is  due,"  she  cried 
angrily  withdrawing  her  hand. 

"No,"  he  answered,  holding  her  elbow  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand  as  she  turned  toward  the  sta 
tion,  "no,  I  say  it,  as  I  say  everything  I  do  to  you, 
with  all  my  heart." 

"Then  you  will  come?" 

"Wait,"  he  said  gently,  "till  you  have  got  back 
to  your  old  environment.  Perhaps  you'll  see 
then  how  badly  I  might  fit  in  there  and  how- 
little  you  really  want  me. " 


i  io  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"You  have  no  right  whatever  to  doubt  me," 
she  said  resentingly. 

The  train  came  crashing  then  into  the  little 
station.  Morgan  helped  Miss  Incell  up  the  step 
and  she  stood  there,  her  hand  in  Hilma's,  the 
high  platform  permitting  them  to  stand  on  a 
level. 

"Good-bye,  Democrat,"  Morgan  held  out  his 
hand  which  Overman  grasped.  "You'll  remem 
ber  that  you've  a  pull  with  the  Inquirer,  won't 
you,  that  the  office  is  in  your  debt  for  all  you've 
done  for  Miss  Incell?" 

"No,  we're  in  the  office's  debt  for  the  loan  of 
her,  Hilma,  Donaghey  and  I,"  he  said,  and  then 
while  the  others  were  saying  good-bye,  he  turned 
to  Miss  Incell.  "Good-bye.  I  wonder  whether 
you'd  ever  care  to  write  to  me  ?  No  one  but 
yourself  could  know  what  a  letter  from  you  would 
mean  to  me.  Will  you — Jessie  ?" 

A  sudden,  hopeful  thaw  melted  her  displeasure 
and  as  the  train  pulled  out  she  was  waving 
her  hand  gayly  at  the  little  colony  on  the  plat 
form. 

"The  fellow's  actually  got  brains,"  Morgan 
said,  as  he  followed  her  into  the  car.  "If  he 
weren't  such  an  ass  and  didn't  take  himself  so  ser 
iously  he  might  make  use  of  all  he's  read  and 
thought  out  for  himself. " 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  in 

"Indeed!"  Miss  Incell  lifted  her  brows  super 
ciliously.  "Did  you  ever  know  a  little  reporter 
who  failed  to  patronize  the  big  man  he  runs  up 
against  ?  It's  one  of  the  perennial  farces  of  the 
profession,  isn't  it?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ATAO  be  able  to  work  and  to  love  one's  work — 
•*•  the  zest  of  life  came  back  to  Jessie  Incell  at 
sight  of  her  desk.  All  her  old  fondness  for  her  pro 
fession  revived  in  the  familiar  atmosphere  of  hurry, 
of  interest,  of  happenings,  of  possibilities.  All  her 
old  poise  and  self-confidence  returned  while  she 
gossiped  for  half  an  afternoon  with  the  "boys." 
She  heard  with  such  eager  attention  as  only  the 
journalist  gives  of  the  doings  and  sayings  of  people 
in  whom  personally  she  had  not  the  smallest 
interest.  She  listened  to  the  inside  histories  that 
had  been  playing  themselves  in  her  absence.  She 
delved  into  the  politics  of  the  office  itself.  She 
demanded  the  news — all  of  it,  the  suppressed  items, 
the  reasons  for  printing  or  suppressing — every 
thing  that  would  not  have  escaped  her  had  she 
been  in  town;  she  wanted  it  all  with  an  appetite 
for  it  that  newsgathering  alone  gives.  And  then 
she  commented  impertinently  upon  the  personal 
peculiarities  of  the  staff,  noting  a  change  here  or 
an  emphasis  there  in  manner,  speech  or  costume. 
She  took  good-naturedly  the  chaff  she  merited 
in  return  and  served  Little  Gap  up  piecemeal— 
the  doctor,  the  postmaster,  the  station-agent;  the 
curious  communities  that  have  been  attracted  by 
the  spot,  as  though  it  possessed  some  peculiar 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  113 

quality  with  which  to  magnetize  the  unbalanced. 
She  told  them  of  the  sect  that  sees  the  devil  in 
speech;  of  the  tiny  fraternity  that  believes  Satan 
dwells  in  the  garments  put  on  after  his  first  ap 
pearance  on  earth,  and  shuns  clothing  accordingly; 
she  described  those  who  have  fasted  forty  days — 
"And  my  friend  Donaghey's  one  of  them,"  she 
cried;  and  exclaimed  at  those  who  prayed  them 
selves  to  death — "And  Hilma,  the  blessed,  very 
nearly  was  one  of  them!" 

"In  fact,"  she  went  on  more  lightly,  "there's 
something  in  the  air  up  yonder  that  nourishes 
notions  till  they  become  fads;  that  feeds  fads  till 
they  become  hobbies;  and  stimulates  hobbies 
till  they  seem  holy.  No  one  is  quite  sane  up 
there.  If  he  were  he'd  be  clapped  quick  into  an 
asylum — so  mad  sanity  appears  when  all  the 
world's  luny." 

"It's  true,"  Morgan  corroborated,  strolling  out 
from  his  desk  in  the  corner,  "Miss  Incell  herself 
had  her  hallucinations  up  there.  And  I  had  to 
humor  her  as  madness  always  cheekily  expects 
to  be  humored." 

"For  instance?"  Miss  Incell  swung  round  in 
her  chair  and  faced  him  challengingly. 

"For  instance,  she  thought  she  was  in  love  with 
A  burning  flush  swept  over  her  face. 

" — with    Nature,"    Morgan     laughed.     "She 


ii4  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

fancied  she  liked  living  close  to  earth — and  the 
bugs  and  beetles  thereof.  She  lost  her  sense  of 
values  and  forgot  the  significance  of  a  scoop. 
She  became  indifferent  to  the  art  of  eating  and  the 

O 

joys  of  the  hot-water  pipe.  She  played,  like 
another  queen  who  was  the  yellow  journalist  of 
her  day,  at  idyl-making,  and  if  I  hadn't  gone  up 
and  rescued  her  she'd  have  been  taking  herself  as 
seriously  as — 

"As  Mr.  Morgan  does  his  first  little  desk 
position,"  she  interrupted  rising.  "Good-bye, 
if  that's  all  the  news." 

Morgan  opened  the  door  for  her  and  helped  her 
to  the  elevator. 

"Won't  you  let  me  take  you  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"No — thank  you.  'Tisn't  a  bit  necessary. 
And  who'd  take  the  desk  ?" 

"Anybody.  Let  me  come.  You  owe  me  some 
thing,  you  know,  for  withholding  my  hand.  I 
could  have  delivered  you  and — your  hallucination 
to  the  mercies  of  the  shop." 

"Why  didn't  you  ?"  she  demanded  hardily. 

"You  know  why — because  I  don't  dare  dis 
please  you.  And  besides — the  hallucination 
won't  last  down  here  in  the  atmosphere  of  real 
things.  And  after  it's  all  gone — 

"What  then?" 

"Don't  be  so  cruel.     What  good  will  it  do  you 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  115 

to  make  me  say  it  now  ?  You're  not  ready  to 
listen.  That  fellow  up  there  has  got  you  hypno 
tized  so  that  you — 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  with  sudden  brisk 
ness,  "I  believe  Little  Gap  has  affected  you,  too." 

"No,  it  isn't  Little  Gap.  I  had  this — this  bit 
of  madness  in  me  long  before  I  went  up  there,  and 

Jf*  Q  G  1  f* 
CoolC 

:'Then  it's  sure  to  be  cured,  if  you're  only 
patient.  Sanity  dwells  at  the  sea-level,  you  know. 
Good-bye. " 

She  stepped  into  the  elevator  and  smiled  up  at 
him  as  it  descended. 

But  the  smile  left  her  face  as  she  walked  slowly 
along  with  her  crutch.  She  had  a  tiny  apartment 
very  near  the  office,  and  she  was  the  exception  to 
the  rule  of  tenants  there  for  her  landlady  served 
her  meals.  But  she  had  known  Mrs.  Connor  for 
years,  had  boarded  with  her  ever  since  the  old 
Irish  woman  left  the  strenuous  life  of  the  tub 
for  the  more  genteel  occupation  of  keeping  an 
apartment  house.  She  had  encouraged  her  in  her 
aspirations  and  helped  her  to  fill  the  new  place; 
consequently  she  occupied  a  position  in  the  house 
and  in  Mrs.  Connor's  heart  that  would  have  been 
hers,  even  had  she  lacked  a  certain  taking  way  of 
seeking  the  human  being  behind  the  greatest 
formalist. 


n6  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

And  Mrs.  Connor  was  very  human  despite  the 
bloodless  calling  she  had  chosen.  She  loved  to 
gossip  as  much  as  did  Jessie  Incell  herself,  and  she 
basked  in  the  reflected  light  which  the  young 
woman's  flimsy  journalistic  fame  shed  upon  her 
place.  There  were  times  when  she  seemed  to  be 
on  the  point  of  exploding  with  the  ostentatious 
secrecy  she  felt  called  upon  to  maintain  in  Jessie's 
behalf.  "Wild  horses  couldn't  get  me  to  tell  ye," 
she  would  declare  to  the  caller  who  inquired 
whether  Miss  Incell  was  in  town.  She  deplored 
and  detested  the  opposition  newspaper,  and  the 
scandalous  inferences  she  permitted  one  to  draw 
from  her  nods  and  winks  and  shrugs,  concerning 
the  character  of  any  other  prominent  woman 
journalist,  gave  cause  for  relief  that  she  hadn't 
told  all  she  knew.  On  the  morning  after  Miss 
Incell  had  achieved  some  sensational  story  Mrs. 
Connor  walked  the  earth  with  the  step  of  a  con 
queror.  She  bullied  the  one  person  on  earth  of 
whom  she  stood  in  awe — her  butcher — and  she 
volunteered  to  the  man  who  kept  the  news-stand  on 
the  corner  unpublished  details,  largely  fictitious, 
concerning  the  Inquirer  s  featured  story  of  the 
day.  On  the  days  when  the  prima  donna  of  a 
rival  office  startled  the  journalistic  world  Mrs. 
Connor  tied  up  her  head  and  sat  brooding  over  the 
kitchen  fire.  On  those  days  her  eyes  always 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  117 

pained  so  that  she  was  unable  to  read,  and  Heaven 
pity  the  unfortunate  neighbor  who  volunteered 
any  information!  If  Jessie  did  not  come  home  to 
dinner  on  time  Mrs.  Connor's  lugubriousness  be 
came  funereal;  she  never  told  what  she  anticipated 
in  these  crises,  but  the  awful  nature  of  her  fore 
bodings  was  plain  to  the  housemaids.  The  only 
thing  that  could  rouse  her  from  her  indisposition 
was  the  final  arrival  of  Miss  Incell,  who  was 
accustomed  to  being  received  on  such  occasions 
with  mammoth  sighs  and  groans  and  a  counten 
ance  of  such  stony  resignation  as  nothing  on  earth 
could  lighten — except  an  attempt  at  making  the 
supposedly  miserable  maiden  comfortable  bodily. 

"  Just  a  cup  of  tay  for  ye  th'  night,  Miss  Jessie, " 
she  would  coax  in  a  lachrymose  tremolo,  "ye 
must  just  eat  something,  child.  It's  your  duty." 

"But  I'm  hungry,"  Miss  Incell  might  protest, 
her  appetite  unaffected  by  the  supposititious  cal 
amity.  "I  want  a  chop  nicely  broiled.  I  want 
an  artichoke,  even  if  it  is  late,  with  that  cold,  soft 
creamy  mayonnaise  you  make.  And  I  want— 

"Ye  shall  have  'em — ye  shall  have 'em!"  Mrs. 
Connor  cried  then  almost  hysterical  at  the  thought 
of  such  Spartan  concealment  of  suffering. 

And  she  would  totter  downstairs  to  work  for  the 
beaten  journalist  and  serve  her  with  her  own  fat, 
capable  hand;  and  she  had  been  known  to  join 


n8  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

her  toward  the  end  of  the  famous  little  dinner  in  a 
glass  of  claret,  over  which  she  would  forget  her 
tenant's  defeat  and  remember  all  her  own  tri 
umphs. 

"Ye  were  speakin'  of  Driscoll  now  who  owns  the 
'Tribunal."  Mrs.  Connor  loved  to  lose  herself  in 
reminiscence  and  grasped  at  the  opportunity 
offered  by  a  familiar  name.  "Jim  Driscoll,  is  it? 
I  cud 'a  had  him.  My!  Long  ago,  before  he  knew 
the  differ  between  a  scoop  and  a  bate  he  was  afther 
me.  'Bridget',  he  used  t'  say  (  I'd  be  standin'  at 
the  tub  an'  he'd  come  noseyin'  round)  'Bridget, 
whin'll  ye  have  me  ?'  'Whin  ye  can  make  as 
much  money  as  I  can  by  honest  wurruk,  ye  lazy 
bones.  Till  then  off  wid  ye! ' 

"And  is't  Baumfelder  the  rich  doctor  was  up  t' 
see  ye  th*  avenin'  ?  I  mind  his  father,  the  peddler. 
I  cud  'a  had  him.  Oh,  many's  the  time  he's  said, 
'Bridget,  I'll  change  my  religion  for  ye.'  'Well,  I 
wouldn't  do  as  much  for  ye/  says  I,  'an*  'tain't 
much  I'd  think  of  a  man  who'd  deny  his  God  for 
a  woman's  pretty  face.'  ...  I  was  pretty  in 
thim  days,  Miss  Jessie,  I  swear  t'  ye.  A  com 
plexion  th'  likes  of  which  ye  don't  see  these  days 
whin  women  are  playing  the  man  and  min  are 
carin'  for  thimselves  like  women.  Ropes  of  hair, 
a  good  stout  lot  of  it  I  had,  an'  a  merry  eye  an*  a 
light  heart  and  such  power  to  rub  in  my  arms  and 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  119 

willingness  in  my  soul  as  I'd  give  a  lot  t'  see  in  that 
jade  Jenny  as  does  my  washin'.  No  China  laun 
dry  for  me.  I  nivver  could  bear  thim  Chinese,  th' 
opium  smokin'  lot!  Dye'  mind  that  story  in  yis- 
tiddah's  news  section  about  the  removal  of  China 
town  an'  th'  property,  blocks  an'  blocks  of  it,  a 
man  named  Horton  owns  there  ?  Well — I  cud 
'a  had  him.  Oh  yes!  He  used  to  be  the  best  o' 
th'  lot  an'  he  had  a  cigar  stand  down  on  Mont 
gomery  street  years  before  th'  Inquirer  moved 
down  there.  Th'  best  o'  th'  lot,  Miss  Jessie,  I'm 
tellin'  ye " 

"Except  Mr.  Connor,  of  course,"  interpolated 
Miss  Incell. 

"Except  Misther  Connor,"  agreed  his  widow 
solemnly. 

For  whatever  liberties  she  permitted  herself 
with  other  men's  names— a  fashion  she  had  picked 
up  in  the  Bohemia  which  Miss  Incell  had  brought 
to  her  doorsteps — she  invariably  referred  to  her 
late  husband,  for  whom  she  had  worked  all  her 
life,  with  the  gentlemanly  prefix. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  Mrs.  Connor  went 
up  to  Miss  IncelPs  room  for  a  suggestion  about 
dinner  and  found  that  young  woman  sitting  look 
ing  wistfully  out  of  the  window,  her  idle  pen  in  her 
hand  and  a  sheet  of  closely  written  paper  quite  dry 
on  the  desk  before  her:  all  the  symptoms,  her 


120  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

sympathetic  landlady  fancied,  most  appropriate 
to  defeat. 

Mrs.  Connor's  conscience  smote  her — she  had 
taken  advantage  of  Miss  Incell's  absence  to  revel 
in  an  easy,  merely  dilettante  interest  in  news 
papers,  and  so  was  unaware  of  the  specific  misery 
that  demanded  consolation.  Still,  like  other 
people  more  vitally  concerned  with  journalism, 
the  old  Irishwoman  was  not  one  to  acknowledge  a 

o 

remissness;  so  thoroughly  imbued  was  she  with  the 
spirit  of  the  craft  that  she  too  believed  anything 
excusable  except  an  excuse. 

"For  my  own  part,  Miss  Jessie,"  she  began  this 
evening  with  elephantine  subtlety,  "I  didn't  think 
much  of  th'  story  th'  Tribunal  brags  so  much 
about.  Now  would  ye  call  it  good  newspaper 
policy  to  print  a  thing  like  that  ?  What 

say  ? " 

"I  really  don't  know,  Mrs.  Connor,"  Jessie 
said  rousing  herself  from  abstraction.  "  I — I 
haven't  begun  to  read  the  papers  closely  yet." 

"No?  .  .  .  No?"  Mrs.  Connor  wiped  her 
hands  with  her  apron.  They  were  not  wet,  but 
they  had  been  so  often  at  critical  times  during  her 
life  and  the  habit  recurred  when  she  was  perplexed. 

Her  face  with  its  hardened  ruddiness,  a  sort  of 
fossilized  blush,  all  that  remained  of  the  delicacy 
of  skin  she  boasted,  turned  like  Miss  Incell's  to- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  121 

ward  the  window.  But  the  light  that  came  from 
there  revealed  only  the  girl's  unnatural  dejection; 
not  the  cause  of  it. 

Below  Jessie  Incell's  high  window,  the  most 
beautiful  bay  in  the  world,  lapped  the  hilly 
town.  It  spread  out  beneath  a  high,  clear 
sky  in  large,  gracious  curves,  a  roomy  wide  ex 
panse  of  sheen  and  softness.  Its  islands  lay  re 
laxed  upon  its  generous  bosom.  Its  shipping 
spread  roomily,  its  masts  a  light  fringe  of  com 
merce  about  the  city's  skirts.  The  passing  ferry 
boats  seemed  to  emphasize  its  largeness  instead  of 
diminishing  it.  Off  to  the  north  the  dry  hills  of 
late  summer  rose  soft  and  round,  huddled  like 
gigantic  deer  in  brown-gold  masses.  To  the  east 
twinkled  the  friendly  lights  of  other  towns  ram 
bling  unconstrained  along  the  stretches  of  the  bay. 
And  out  to  the  west  in  the  hazy  golden  glimmer  of 
the  Gate  the  bay  merged  into  the  ocean  and  the 
ocean  became  bay,  and  the  sinking  sun,  shed 
ding  a  ceremonious  splendor  over  the  scene,  played 
priest  over  the  marriage  of  the  waters. 

Mrs.  Connor's  eyes  looked  upon  it  as  they  had 
for  fifty  years,  taking  in  all  the  little  of  it  they  had 
ever  been  capable  of  containing. 

Miss  Incell  gazed  upon  it  and  saw  not  a  single 
outline  of  tjiat  expanse  of  purity  and  peace,  which 
had  so  often  lent  consolation  when  she  was  weary. 


izz  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"Does  yer  fut  hurt  ye,  Miss  Jessie?"  Mrs. 
Connor  dropped  the  indirection  of  her  post- 
scrubbing  days;  she  turned  her  back  on  the  glory 
outside  striving  to  fathom  the  trouble  within. 

"I  don't  think  it's  my  foot,  Mrs.  Connor." 
Miss  Incell's  surprised  laugh  ended  abruptly 
without  the  trail  of  chuckles  "like  bubbles  of  clean 
suds  dripping  from  the  sheets"  Mrs.  Connor 
was  wont  to  say.  "  Perhaps  it  is,  though.  I  wish 
—I  do  wish  it  were.  No — the  trouble  with  me 
is — that  I  have  got  an  hallucination.  Dean 
Morgan's  right,"  she  added  with  a  sigh. 

Mrs.  Connor  looked  wary.  Words  were  seldom 
what  they  seemed  and  a  disinclination  to  be 
laughed  at  was  one  of  her  acquired  journalistic 
traits. 

"That  young  man's  got  the  swelled  head," 
she  said  at  last  grimly.  "It's  a  desk  posi 
tion  that's  done  it.  Just  because  he's  managing 
editor— 

"Just  assistant  city  editor,  Mrs.  C." 

"  'Tis  what  I  say.  They  can't  stand  carryin' 
a  green  pencil." 

"Blue,"  said  Jessie  absently. 

Mrs.  Connor  looked  annoyed.  Technical  ac 
curacy  she  held  to  be  the  vice  of  pedants  and  she 
was  still  unenlightened  as  to  her  young  friend's 
ailment.  She  had  turned  to  go,  her  mission  un- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  123 

accomplished,  when  Miss  Incell  rose  and  called 
to  her. 

"Mrs.  Connor,"  she  said  putting  her  hands 
upon  the  landlady's  fat  shoulders,  steady  and 
broad  like  bridges  of  steel,  "you've  told  me  often 
of  the  others — the  men  you  could  have  had,  you 
know — but  never  anything  really  of  the  one  you 
did  take.  Come  now,  tell  me — you  won't  mind 
telling  me,  not  for  publication,  you  know,  but 
merely  as  an  evidence  of  good  faith,  and  relying 
on  mine — tell  me  about  Mr.  Connor." 

The  landlady's  clear  old  eye  wandered.  Her 
fat,  uncorseted  breast  heaved  and  she  rubbed  her 
arms  and  her  forehead  vigorously  with  her  apron, 
freeing  herself  uncomfortably  from  the  young 
woman's  direct  gaze. 

"Misther  Connor,"  she  said  at  length  with  dig 
nity,  "was  a  gintleman.  All  th'  days  of  me  life 
I'll  mourn  his  loss.  He  was  wan  of  nature's 
noblemin,  Miss  Jessie." 

"Of  course,  of  course, "  said  Miss  Incell  sooth 
ingly.  Some  literary  experience  had  taught  her 
what  excellent  leverage  there  is  in  the  laudatory 
preface. 

"Nivver  a  man  was  his  akel  in  good-nathur,  in 
contentedness  of  spirit,  in — in  puttin'  up  with 
things." 

"Yes.  But?" 


i24  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"But  he  was  a  divvle  if  iver  there  was  wan! 
Mind  that.  Whin  he  was  in  liquor — an'  pity 
knows  whin  he  wasn't — he'd  lay  hands  on — on  the 
wan  he  owed  most  to.  An'  he  wouldn't  wurruk. 
He  hated  wurruk  like  the  divvle  hates  holy  wather. 
Job  afther  job  he'd  lose  an'  me  at  th'  tub,  an  th' 
bye — 'twas  th'  only  wan  we  iver  had  Miss  Jessie 
— down  sick  an'  needin'  my  care,  whin  in  Dinnis 
rolls  bilin'  dhrunk. 

Her  voice  had  become  uncertain  and  faded 
gradually  into  stillness.  She  stood  looking  out 
contemplatively  at  the  view  which  had  changed  so 
little  since  the  day  she  had  borne  and  buried  her 
misery,  shaking  her  head  slowly,  continuing  her 
conjugal  history  in  her  thoughts,  unconscious  for 
the  moment  that  she  had  given  voice  to  them, 

Miss  Incell  waited.  She  was  a  gifted  inter 
viewer,  finely  susceptible  to  atmosphere.  The 
lights  burned  brighter  across  the  bay  and  the  ferry 
boats  stood  out  on  the  softly  blackening  water  like 
far-sailing  glow-worms. 

"  But  in  spite  of  it  all—  The  suggestion  was 

gently  sympathetic,  tentative,  appealing. 

"In  spite  of  it  all,"  Mrs.  Connor  shook  herself 
out  of  the  past  into  the  unrealities  she  had  builded 
for  the  comfort  of  the  present,  "in  spite  of  it  there 
nivver  was  anny  man  in  th'  world  like  Misther 
Connor. " 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  125 

"Of  course  not."  Not  half  the  heartiness  in 
Miss  Incell's  tone  was  ironical.  "And  as  for  the 
men  we  could  have  had— 

"Those  we  cud'  a  had,  Miss  Jessie,  lumped 
altogether  ain't  worth  wan  hair  o'  the'  head  o'  th' 
man  we  ha'  married  an'  lived  with,  an' — an' 
loved." 

The  landlady's  voice  fell  as  though  she  feared  a 
mocking  echo.  The  echoes  of  this  odd  little  apart 
ment  were  apt  to  be  mocking,  and  sentiment  usu 
ally  shrank  in  corners  while  cynicism  stalked 
about  like  a  masterful  man  in  his  own  house.  But 
in  the  dusk  of  this  particular  evening  and  in  the 
thoughtful  pose  of  the  girl  who  had  seated  her 
self  at  her  desk  again  something  uncommon 
lurked  that  stirred  the  old  Irishwoman. 

"Miss  Jessie,"  she  whispered  stertorously, 
"ye 're  not  thinkin'  of  marryin'  that  mon  Morgan  ? 
Don't  marry  a  newspaperman,  don't,  dear.  I 
used  t'  wash  for  wan  an'  I  had  t'  write  his  bill  in 
indelible  ink  on  his  cuff  an'  sind  it  t'  th'  opposi 
tion  paper  before  he'd  pay  it.  An'  they  say  whin 
they're  dhrunk,  they're  not  only  th'  divvle — 
which  is  what  all  min  are  dhrunk — but  him  with 
smartness  grafted  on  t'  him.  It  ain't  Morgan  ?" 

"No — no,  Mrs.  Connor,"  Jessie  answered 
hurriedly.  "I — I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  marry. 
Women  can't  marry  an  hallucination," 


iz6  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Connor  with  vague  encouragement,  "I  cud'  a  had 
a  policeman,  an'  a  figure  like  you  now,  Miss  Jessie, 
with  all  your  writin'  an'  your  name  an'  that, 
might  grace  anny  position.  Min  are  min,  an'  in 
America  .  .  .  Come  now,  what  should  I  send 
ye  for  dinner?" 

"Not  much  to-night — no,  really.  Up  in  the 
country  I  got  out  of  the  habit  of  eating  heartily  in 
the  evening." 

Mrs.  Connor  sniffed  contemptuously. 

"And  besides — I  have  a  letter  to  write, "  Jessie 
added. 

"What's  that?"  The  landlady,  turned  tyran 
nical  at  the  sight  of  weakness,  pointed  with  a  thick 
ringer,  stubbed  by  years  of  close  association  with 
corrugated  zinc.  "Ye're  not  workin'  yet?"  It 
was  a  pose  of  Mrs.  Connor's  to  revile  Miss  Incell's 
work  which  secretly  she  gloried  in. 

"That?"  Jessie  looked  at  the  pages  toward 
which  Mrs.  Connor's  accusing  finger  pointed. 

"Yes,  that  writin.'  That  iverlastin'  writin!" 
The  distrust  of  the  Dark  Ages  dwelt  in  Mrs.  Con 
nor's  tone;  she  looked  as  though  she  would  have 
liked  to  cross  herself. 

"Oh,  that  is  merely  one  of  the  letters  that  are 
never  mailed,  Mrs.  Connor.  Born  to  blush  inkly 
unseen,  you  know.  You  have  to  write  just  so 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  127 

many  of  that  kind  during  your  life.  They  seem 
to  be  an  utter  waste  of  time  and  copy  but— 
they  serve  a  purpose.  For  till  you  see  what  you 
think  you  think  in  black  and  white,  written  by 
your  own  pen,  you  can't  know  whether  you're 
entitled  to  any  self-respect  or  not — you  know." 

Mrs.  Connor  didn't  know,  but  she  did  know 
that  no  practical  journalist  ever  admits  that  he 
doesn't  know;  and  she  had  acquired  what  she 
considered  the  virtues  of  the  profession,  if  nothing 
else.  So  she  gathered  up  Miss  Incell's  full  waste 
basket  and  was  about  to  leave  when  her  eye  fell 
again  upon  the  closely  written  pages. 

"Then  shall  I  take  the  letther  down  wid  th' 
rest  of  th'  rubbish  ?"  she  asked,  convinced  that  in 
that  letter  lay  the  cause  of  the  girl's  strange  be 
havior. 

"N — no,  thank  you.  They  don't  mail  un- 
mailable  letters,  Mrs.  Connor,  but  they  don't 
always  destroy  them — either.  They're  good  to 
keep,  for  by  rereading  them  you  get  whipped  back 
in  line.  And  the  man  who  made  the  conventions 
knew  mighty  well  what  he  was  about. 
Good-night. " 


CHAPTER  IX 

TV/TISS  INCELL'S  landlady  felt  her  distrust  of 
"all  writin',"  and  the  letter  in  particular 
which  had  lain  on  the  young  woman's  table, 
justified  when  the  upstairs  maid  brought  down 
an  untouched  tray  of  eatables,  with  the  report 
that  "Mith  Jetthie  wath  buthy  reading  a  long 
letter  the  had  written  to  herthelf,  and  the'th  not 
at  home  to  anybody  if  anybody  callth." 

But  the  letter  Miss  Incell  had  written  to  her 
self  began  "Dear  Anthony  Overman"  and  was 
still  unsigned.  And  between  the  opening  and  the 
closing  lay  all  Jessie  Incell  would  have  liked  to 
say  and  all  she  dared  not,  for  fear  of  incurring  her 
own  grave  displeasure;  no  light  thing  in  a  young 
woman  possessing  her  talent  for  ridicule.  She 
had  begun  the  letter  in  good  faith.  But  as  she 
progressed  an  occasional  phrase  or  expression  had 
raised  a  question  in  her  mind,  which  she  had  re 
solved  to  consider  by  and  by.  And  the  very 
possibility  of  altering,  toning  down  and  revising 
later  had  given  an  unstability  to  the  composition 
which  became  an  unreality  as  she  wrote  on,  yield 
ing  to  the  temptation  of  full  expression  and  post 
poning  any  mental  debate  as  to  advisability  or 
propriety.  So  that  the  document,  begun  rea 
sonably,  had  become  a  fanciful  thing  before  long 

128 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  129 

whose  very  impossibility  as  a  communication  from 
herself  to  Overman  led  her  on  to  still  greater  im 
probabilities,  till  at  last  she  was  playing  con 
sciously  with  fiction,  but  fiction  she  was  tempted 
to  make  fact. 

"I  have  just  got  home  after  my  first  appearance 
at  the  office,"  she  wrote.  "Not  to  go  to  work  yet, 
but  to  say  'How  do  you  do'  to  the  boys,  to  learn 
all  the  news  and  to  yield  again  to  the  preoccupa 
tion  of  that  environment  which,  according  to  you, 
was  so  speedily  to  wean  me  from  the  friends  I  left 
behind  me. 

"It  hasn't — as  this  letter  may  indicate.  In 
fact — in  fact,  Anthony  Overman,  I  am  distinctly 
lonely  as  I  sit  here  looking  out  of  my  high  window 
over  the  bay.  I  miss  Hilma  and  Will  Donaghey, 
the  queer,  lovable,  cross-grained  fellow,  and  you. 
I  miss  a  certain  poise  there  used  to  be  of  clean, 
simple,  worth-while  living  up  in  the  Sierras. 
This  last  is  a  delusion  of  course.  I  have  merely 
been  exposed  to  the  Renunciant  contagion  and  am 
suffering  from  a  slight  attack  of  'crankiness/ 
Real  living  and  working  will  cure  that  quickly. 

"And  this  is  one  reason  why  I  want  you  to  come 
down  and  try  the  same  cure.  At  least,  I  believe 
this  is  one  of  the  reasons.  Another  is  that  it  seems 
to  me  most  of  what  I  miss  of  the  Little  Gap  life 
is — you,  Anthony. 


130  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"Now,  why  in  the  world  of  commonsense  may 
not  a  woman  say  as  much  to  a  man  ?  If  you  were  a 
woman  or  I  a  man,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  ask 
you  to  come  down  to  San  Francisco  to  visit  me. 
In  either  case  we'd  be  two  men,  you  and  I,  or  two 
women  living  together  in  my  dear  little  apartment 
and  I'd  remake  acquaintance  with  the  dirty, 
straggling,  beautiful  town  I  am  so  fond  of,  ex 
periencing  an  added  pleasure  because  you  wrere 
seeing  and  feeling  wThat  I  see  and  feel.  We'd  go  to 
work  together  on  the  paper  and  rest  together  and 
play  together  after  we  got  through  digging.  You'd 
moderate  my  passion  for  scoops,  which  takes  me, 
careless  of  everything  else,  into  a  world  where  I 
can  ignore  people  to  the  verge  of  forgetting  that 
they  may  be  human.  I'd  be  excellent  for  you, 
too;  a  corrective  of  crankism,  an  antidote  to 
dreams,  an  example  of  practical  worldly  wisdom. 
We'd  quarrel  desperately,  I  suppose,  but  that  too, 
I  think,  would  be  very  good  for  you.  It  would  be 
better  for  you  to  violently  hate  a  single,  concrete 
human  being  than  to  dwell  up  there  in  lofty  love 
for  the  whole  race,  without  really  knowing  one  of 
us.  No,  you  don't — not  even  Hilma  and  Donaghey. 

"You  don't  know  anybody,  Anthony.  You 
don't  know  me.  You  won't  know  me,  nor  your 
self.  You  are  satisfied  to  make  me  your  close 
friend  for  the  weeks  we  were  together,  and  are 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  131 

satisfied  now  to  let  us  drift  apart.  What  sort  of 
friendship  is  that  ?  Your  eyes  are  clogged  with 
theories.  I  don't  care  how  fine  they  are  or  how 
true;  they're  not  worth  a  day  of  actual  living. 

"Are  you  missing  me — a  bit,  O  Buddha  ? 
Are  you  lonely — a  bit  ?  Do  you  regret  that  we 
two  are  not  of  the  same  sex,  or  altogether  different 
conventions,  so  that  we  might  be  companions 
unhindered,  unquestioned — that  at  least,  you 
might  come  down  to  see  me  (if  you  obstinately 
persist  in  still  living  up  in  the  hills)  or  that  I  might 
run  up  to  you  when  I  had  a  day  or  so  off  and 
wanted  to  listen  to  you  talk  ? 

'Tell  me,  isn't  there  something,  some  little 
thing  gone  out  of  the  forest  and  the  mountains  and 
the  sky  and  the  little  log  cottage  and — your  heart, 
Anthony  ?  Can  you  really  let  me  go  as  easy  as 
this  ?  If  you  were  any  other  sort  of  man  I'd  know 
and  understand  the  connection  between  your 
actions  and  your  thoughts.  But  with  that  fanatic 
purpose  of  yours  to  drive  you  on  and  lift  you,  in  a 
sense,  above  the  necessities  that  would  conquer 
another,  a  mere  human  man — I  don't  know— 
I  don't  know. 

"All  I  know  is — I  want  you,  Anthony.  I  long 
for  you — I  crave  the  sound  of  your  voice  and  the 
look  of  your  clear  eyes.  And  at  times — like  this 
minute,  this  quick,  fleeting,  fleeting  minute — I 


i32  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

know  you  want  me,  too,  that  you  miss  your  friend, 
that  you  too  feel  the  bond  that  has  grown  between 
us,  a  bond  that  you'd  not  see  broken.  I  know 
that  this  feeling  that  moves  me  so  strongly  is  but 
the  answering  sympathetic  impulse  of  your  own 
longing  far  off  there,  yonder,  high  on  the  hills. 

"And  then,  all  at  once,  that  sureness  leaves  me. 
And  I  hate  you,  Anthony  Overman,  for  waking 
a  feeling  of  which  you  are  unworthy." 

As  she  read  them  over  her  own  words  moved 
her  as  the  writing  of  them  had  hardly  done. 
With  the  last  paragraph  a  paroxysm  of  anger  and 
humiliation  shook  her  and  she  seized  the  page  in 
tending  to  tear  it  to  pieces.  But  she  caught  sight 
then  on  the  lower  leaf  of  the  fanciful  picture  of  a 
life  in  common  which  her  own  pen  had  created, 
and  she  throbbed  with  tenderness  for  her  imagi 
nation's  offspring. 

"No,"  she  said,  as  though  there  were  some 
thing  sentient  in  the  letter  that  could  understand. 
"I'll  put  you  away.  They  say  that  everbody  is 
some  sort  of  fool  that  nobody  dreams  of.  It  will 
be  good  for  me  to  have  this  thing  where  I  can  get 
at  it  and  convince  myself  by  ocular  demonstration 
that  I'm  not  to  be  trusted.  My  thoughts  have 
actually  become  incomplete  to  me  unless  I  can 
talk  or  write  them  to  him!  Well,  when  my  case 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  133 

comes  up  in  court — when  I'm  arrested  for  choking 
that  lisping  maid  to  death — the  police,  rum 
maging  through  my  things,  will  come  across  this 
letter,  and  some  smart  girl  reporter,who's  on  flirting 
terms  with  the  Chief,  will  publish  it  as  her  scoop. 
And  everybody  (deceitfully  ignoring  his  own 
skeleton  weakness,  yet  undiscovered)  will  say, 
'You  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  her,  would  you  ? 
And  she  seemed  to  have  such  commonsense,  too!' 
Well — here's  for  a  commonsense  letter  that  in 
tends  to  be  mailed.  I  wonder  am  I  always  to 
write  two  versions  to  that  man  every  time  an 
epistolary  mood  seizes  me!" 

She  pulled  her  blotter  viciously  toward  her  and 
began  again  to  write: 

"My  Dear  Mr.  Overman, 

I  write  to  inform  you  that  no  sudden  and  sur 
prising  change  has  manifested  itself  in  me  or  in  my 
feelings  by  the  drop  from  an  elevation  to  the  sea 
level,  and  the  passage  of  seventy-two  hours.  I 
still  hope  that  we  shall  continue  our  friendship  and 
that  you  care  for  this,  too.  I  still  believe  that  you 
make  a  mistake  in  living  off  in  the  mountains 
making  a  Renunciant  community  of  yourself,  at 
the  risk  of  becoming  a  greater  crank  even  than  you 
are  now,  and  of  some  day  providing  copy  for  some 
yellow  woman  journalist's  article,  beside  which 
Jessie  Incell's  expose  of  Brother  Ariel  Senn  will 
seem  innocuous. 


i34  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"It  really  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone, 
Anthony.  Even  rubbing  up  against  the  world 
is  not  enough  to  smooth  out  all  the  kinks  of  ego 
tism  in  strong  individualities.  I  pray  you  come  to 
the  rescue  of  your  present  self  and  lift  Anthony 
Overman  out  of  the  danger  that  threatens.  I  see 
a  possible  future  for  you  that  at  once  saddens  and 
amuses  me.  So,  come  down,  O  Man,  from  thy 
heights  to  where  mere  mortals  dwell  at  the  sea 
level.  I  know  you  intend  to  some  day,  but  now's 
the  day.  Come  down  and  go  to  work  on  the  In 
quirer.  Morgan  says  a  position  is  waiting  for 
you.  Why  deny  yourself  the  experience  ?  One 
can  always  retire  in  disgust  at  the  end,  instead  of 
the  beginning  of  life.  I  am  writing  to  Hilma  by 
this  mail,  impressing  it  upon  the  dear  conscien 
tious  little  soul  that  it  is  her  duty  to  make  you  so 
miserable  and  uncomfortable  up  there  that  you'll 
just  have  to  give  up  your  role  of  hermit. 

"I  am —  strange  to  say,  still 

Your  friend,  at  the  sea  level  as  well  as 
up  in  the  mountains, 

Jessie  Incell." 

She  sealed  and  stamped  this  in  a  thoroughly 
business-like  manner  and  then  wrote  Hilma  a  few 
lines  telling  her  how  quickly  her  ankle  was  gaining 
strength,  how  comparatively  little  she  used  her 
pretty  crutch,  and  how  considerate  the  office  had 
been  in  creating  a  position  where  one  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  re-write  other  people's  copy,  till  she 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  135 

should  be  well  enough  to  go  about  town  again. 
She  reminded  Hilma  of  her  promise  to  come  down 
to  pay  her  a  visit  before  winter  and  the  rains  set  in, 
and  she  wound  up  with  a  querulously  tender  para 
graph  in  which  she  accused  the  Swedish  girl  of 
spoiling  her  by  all  her  tender  ministrations,  so 
that  she  felt  like  a  little  child  compelled  for  the 
first  time  to  go  to  sleep  alone. 

And  she  did  set  about  her  preparations  for  bed 
in  a  haphazard,  undecided  sort  of  way,  lingering 
long  at  the  open  window  in  intervals  of  undress 
ing,  which  she  accomplished  by  starlight,  her 
eyes  on  the  black,  soft  stretch  of  the  bay, 
spangled  now  by  lights  that  glowed  and  sparkled 
aggressively,  as  though  gaining  strength  from  the 
defeat  of  day.  And  at  the  very  last,  when  she  had 
laid  herself  down  on  her  slim  couch,  she  rose  again 
in  the  dark  and  shamefacedly  pulled  open  the 
drawer  of  her  desk  to  lay  her  hand  gently  and 
caressingly  upon  the  letter  which  she  had  declared 
unmailable;  and  she  went  back  to  bed  as  though 
she  had  found  loving  comfort  in  its  contact. 

By  day  though  Miss  Incell  sternly  refused  to 
countenance  any  nonsense  or  to  recognize  herself 
in  a  sentimental  damosel  who  had  time  for  dreams 
and  desires.  She  got  up  early.  Below  her  the 
bay  was  wrapped  in  fog  and  the  hoarse  whistles 
of  the  tugs  and  sirens  were  complaining  like  over- 


136  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

worked  things  with  a  grievance,  a  touch  of  bron 
chitis  due  to  the  damp,  and  an  alcoholic  tendency 
that  might  be  attributed  to  the  same  cause.  She 
buttoned  herself  determinedly  into  her  jacket,  set 
her  hat  severely  upon  her  head  in  the  correcting 
manner  with  which  she  had  seen  mothers  add  a 
dignifying  touch  of  discipline  to  the  perfunctory 
washing  and  dressing  of  their  children  and,  with 
the  lisping  maid's  help,  she  got  down  the  long 
flight  of  steps  that  led  to  the  street.  As  she  walked 
down  the  steep  sidewalk,  there  was  a  steady, 
business-like  swing  to  her  cane  that  had  nothing 
of  the  cripple  in  it.  (She  had  discarded  the  crutch 
and  it  hung  upon  her  wall  like  a  warrior's  sword 
when  the  fray  is  over — the  simile  was  Morgan's). 
And  she  landed  from  a  cable  car  at  the  office  door 
feeling,  in  spite  of  her  lagging  foot,  that  she  had 
never  been  away  from  her  desk,  that  she  never 
wanted  to  be,  and  that  she  had  only  dreamed  she 
craved  something  her  work  could  not  give  her. 

But  in  a  few  days  she  found  that  she  had  got 
back  only  into  the  routine;  not  into  the  atmosphere 
she  had  left.  She  told  herself  pettishly,  when  she 
could  no  longer  affect  to  ignore  it,  that  the  differ 
ence  was  owing  to  the  nature  of  her  present  employ 
ment;  that  rewriting  other  people's  stories  was 
deadly  drudgery  and  that  when  she  should  be  able 
safely  to  walk  without  help  of  any  kind  and  go 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  137 

about  her  own  business,  she  would  find  again  all 
the  interest  and  self-absorption  in  her  work  it  had 
always  had  for  her. 

A  letter  that  was  lying  upon  her  desk  when  she 
got  home  one  evening  disabused  her  of  this  im 
pression.  At  sight  of  the  postmark  and  the 
masculine  dash  of  the  address,  she  knew  that  it 
held  the  only  story  in  the  world  that  could  really 
interest  her  now,  and  she  locked  the  door  before 
tearing  the  envelope  open,  feeling  as  keen  a  desire 
to  be  alone  with  it  as  though  she  feared  someone 
might  be  watching  her  self-betrayal. 

Yet  when  she  had  finished  reading  it,  she  sat 
still  at  the  window,  holding  it  in  her  hand  and 
looking  thoughtfully  before  her,  quite  composed. 
After  all  there  was  no  necessity  to  lock  the  door,  to 
lock  her  features,  to  lock  up  her  emotions.  No 
one  dreamed  of  disturbing  any  of  these,  evidently. 
A  letter  like  this  warranted  no  such  apprehension. 
She  smiled  scornfully  as  her  eyes  fell  again  to  the 
sheet  in  her  hand  and  she  read  once  more, 

"Dear  Jessie, 

Your  letter  gave  me  that  familiar  feeling 
of  being  tenderly  laughed  at,  that  I  never  ex 
perienced  till  I  met  you  and  that  I  know  so  well 
now.  I  see  myself,  after  reading  it,  as  a  pompous 
owl  of  great  pretense  and  no  performance  setting 
up  to  be  a  great  deal  better  than  my  neighbors. 


138  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

I  am  always  ashamed  both  of  the  big  pretense  and 
the  no  performance,  but  not  nearly  so  ashamed  of 
these  as  I  am  delighted  and  thankful  for  your 
interest  in  me. 

"There  never  was  a  lonelier  fellow  than  myself, 
never  one  more  thoroughly  adrift  from  all  human 
connection — which  makes  my  altruistic  pretenses 
all  the  funnier  to  you,  no  doubt,  but  which  makes 
me  most  grateful  for  and  prone  to  treasure  every 
human  tie  that  I  am  fortunate  enough  to  make. 
You  have  many  friends — which  makes  your  adding 
me  to  the  number  a  further  proof  of  your  generous 
nature.  I  have  none — few — you.  It  is  for  this 
very  reason,  for  the  value  your  friendship  is  to  me 
that  I  refrain  from  putting  it  to  the  test  your  good 
ness  suggests.  I  am  not  fit  to  live  in  your  world, 
Jessie.  It  would  only  trouble  and  perplex  you 
to  try  to  fit  me  into  the  environment  that  suits  you 
so  well. 

"Thank  you — and  no.  I  cannot  come  to  San 
Francisco  to  force  upon  you  contrasts  that  might 
shake  your  confidence  in  your  judgment  of  me.  I 
cannot  accept  your  kind  offices  with  the  Inquirer. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  journalist  about  me — I 
should  only  weary  your  patience,  be  an  indictment 
of  your  discernment. 

"But  I  have  no  intention  of  remaining  indefi 
nitely  up  here.  I  shall  wait  till  Donaghey  is  on 
his  feet,  till  he  can  manage  things  alone  for  himself 
and  Hilma  and  then  I  shall  go  back  East — to 
work  humbly,  with  no  brass-band  prospectus 
for  my  ideal,  in  any  small,  homely  way  that  pres- 
sents  itself.  I  shall  be  no  important,  sensational 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  139 

crank,  believe  me.  The  newspapers  will  not  find 
me  worth  while,  and  a  future  Jessie  Incell  will 
never  dream  of  making  me  the  subject  of  her 
dissecting  pen. 

"It  simply  must  be,  though,  that  there  is  work 
for  a  man  to  do  who  has  no  other  tie  than  that 
that  binds  him  to  humanity  as  a  whole;  who  has 
no  duty  greater  than  the  chance  duty  nearest  him; 
who  has  no  religion  other  than  charity;  who  has 
always  time  to  help;  who  feels  a  sense  of  brother 
hood  to  misery,  a  longing  to  struggle  with  it,  a 
desire  to  ease  it  that  takes  the  place  in  him  of 
passion  for  a  wife,  of  protection  for  children,  of 
ambition  in  society  and  religious  devotion.  The 
reason  why  there  is  so  little  real  charity  in  the 
world  is  that  the  father  cannot  stop  to  heed  the 
call — he  is  on  his  way  to  work;  the  mother  is  on 
her  way  to  her  home;  the  children  are  on  their 
way  to  school.  Even  the  sister  of  mercy  is  on  her 
way  to  obey  a  regulation,  to  fulfill  some  order. 
And  the  warmer-hearted  of  the  un-uniformed 
sisters  buy  with  a  coin  the  substitute  for  personal 
giving;  as  lukewarm  patriots  buy  substitutes  in 
time  of  war.  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  meet  just 
those  whose  need  of  me  cries  out  to  me — a  humble 
enough,  simple  enough  calling,  isn't  it  ?  I  must 
give  time  enough  to  work  so  that  I  shall  not  be  a 
burden — no  more;  all  the  rest  that  I  am  or  have 
is  a  debt  that  I  owe  to  weak  humanity,  to  weary 
and  sick  humanity.  And  every  one  that  I  can 
raise  up  will  be  another  one  to  fight  the  system  that 
has  thrown  them  like  refuse  from  a  machine  off 
into  the  gutter  of  life  to  die  or  to  be  washed  away. 


i4o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

".  .  .  After  all,  you  are  right,  Jessie.  I  am 
a  crank,  a  wearying  one,  a  bore  who  never  knows 
the  place  to  deny  himself,  nor  the  time  to  desist. 
Forgive  me.  I  never  got  a  letter  that  carried  with 
it  so  unmistakably  the  personality  of  the  writer 
as  this  one  of  yours  seems  to.  It  bears  your  voice, 
your  laugh,  your  pretty  little  ways.  It  brings  you 
back  so  vividly  that  I  must  lift  my  head  and  stare 
at  it  to  realize  that  you  are  not  lying  on  the  lounge 
yonder  while  I  am  talking  to  you.  There  is  some 
excuse,  perhaps,  for  the  bore  who  rides  his  hobby 
madly  in  your  presence,  but  he  deserves  not  for 
giveness  who  bores  his  helpless  friend  when  he 
has  him  at  his  mercy — at  the  end  of  a  letter.  So 
do  forgive  me, 

"  Before  I  go  back  east — the  date  is  not  yet 
settled — may  I  come  down  to  say  good-bye  to  you  ? 

"  Believe  me,  faithfully  your  friend,  to  whom 
your  letters  carry  the  very  sunshine  of  your 
presence,  Anthony  Overman." 

Miss  Incell  shook  her  head  bitterly.  No — 
nothing  here  which  she  might  not  have  read  in 
anyone's  presence;  nothing  but  the  composed 
utterance  of  a  self-contained  man,  a  man  who  had 
measured  his  strength  and  spoke  with  absolute 
sincerity.  Why,  she  might  have  opened  this 
envelope  before  the  whole  staff  assembled  in  the 
Inquirer's  local  room!  And  yet  when,  just  at  this 
moment,  someone  knocked  she  started  guiltily. 
She  must  have  been  contemplating  the  plan  that 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  141 

sprang  complete  from  her  mind  when  she  opened 
the  d6or  to  admit  the  lisping  maid  Lisbeth,  for  she 
hardly  listened  to  the  girl's  question  as  to  whether 
she  needed  anything  more  in  the  night,  and  spoke 
quickly. 

"Yes,  just  one  thing  more,  Lisbeth — can  you 
write  ?" 

"Me?  You  don't  mean  for  the  paper,  Mith 
Jetthie!  .  .  .  Oh!  juth  plain  handwriting  .  .  . 
Oh,  yeth.  Thertainly." 

"There's  a  newspaper  story  that  I  am  going  to 
do,"  Miss  Incell  said  uncertainly  and  with  an 
appearance  of  embarrassment  that  roused  all  the 
maid 's  curiosity,  "  and  you  can  help  me,  if  you  will, 
by  writing  a  line  for  me  and  addressing  an  enve 
lope.  Do  you  mind?" 

Did  Lisbeth  mind  ?  A  gasping,  incredulous  joy 
filled  her.  She  cherished  a  secret  ambition  that 
she  had  not  confided  to  a  soul.  She  felt  that  in 
herself  were  the  desert  and  the  capacity  for  ac 
quiring  just  such  a  sensational  notoriety  of  glory 
as  surrounded  Miss  Incell  with  a  fascinating 
halo. 

She  took  from  Jessie's  hand  a  closely-written 
page  and  wrote  at  the  bottom  of  it  at  the  place 
pointed  out  to  her  these  words  under  dictation: 
"Miss  Incell  is  very  ill.  She  wishes  to  see  you." 
Then  she  addressed  an  envelope  to  Anthony  Over- 


i42  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

man,  Little  Gap,  California,  and  sealed  and 
stamped  it. 

"And  will  my  name  be  in  the  paper?"  she 
asked  in  blissful  agitation. 

"No — we'll  have  pull  enough  to  keep  it  out  all 
right,"  Miss  Incell  said  smiling,  all,  unconscious 
that  she  had  extinguished  the  light  of  a  great  hope. 
"And  if  you  get  out  of  the  house  and  mail  it,  Lis- 
beth,  before  I  c-an  call  you  back,  you  shall  have 
theatre  tickets  to  any  show  in  town. — Fly!" 

And  Lisbeth  flew  to  mail  the  unmailable  letter. 


CHAPTER  X 

'"T^HERE  'th  a  gentleman  to  thee  you,  Mith  Jet- 

•••  thie."  Lisbeth's  face  was  a-dimple  with 
delight  and  her  round  eyes  shone  significantly. 

An  answering  signal,  a  flame  of  red  swept  over 
Miss  Incell's  face  and  her  eyes  too  shone  signifi 
cantly. 

"Is  it —  "  she  whispered. 

"Yeth.  He  told  me  to  thay  it  wath  Anthony 
Overman — it  'th  the  very  thame  name,  Mith 
Jetthie!"  she  squealed. 

"Tell  me,  what  does  he  look  like,  Lisbeth — is 
he  short  ?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Dark?" 

"No,  but " 

"Dressed  like  a  swell  ?" 

"No." 

"  Big  black  eyes  ?  A  squeaky  voice  ?  Narrow 
shoulders — Say,  Lisbeth!" 

"Why— no." 

"Ah — h!  It  can't  be  the  man.  Tell  him  I'm 
not  at  home,  Lisbeth." 

Every  dimple  went  out  of  Lisbeth's  face  which 
could  not  have  expressed  keener  disappointment 
and  amazement,  had  cold  water  been  dashed  upon 
it.  Her  eyes,  which  had  beamed  so  expressively 

143 


i44  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

when  she  entered  gave  a  bewildered,  resentful 
glance  at  the  leading  lady  in  journalism,  whose 
humble,  unacknowledged  understudy  she  believed 
herself  to  be,  and  unwillingly  she  left  the  room 
closing  the  door  sorrowfully  behind  her. 

Miss  Incell  preserved  her  dignified  demeanor 
just  that  long.  Then  she  turned  her  flaming 
face  to  the  cushions  and  buried  it  there.  She 
dwelt  for  a  second  in  the  light  of  a  land  of  desire 
fulfilled.  Then  another  knock  at  the  door  brought 
her  to  her  feet.  But  it  was  still  Lisbeth. 

"He  wanted  to  know  when  you  would  be  at 
home." 

"And  you  told  him  ?" 

"I  didn't  know.     I  thaid  I'd  athk  my  aunt." 

"Hum!"  Miss  Incell's  shining  eyes  looked 
through  the  little  maid  with  a  glance  that  made 
Lisbeth  feel  uncomfortably  unimportant.  "Well 
— tell  him  I've  just  come  in." 

"Mith  Jetthie!" 

"Oh — all  right.  If  you  don't  like  that  tell  him 
I'm  always  at  home  evenings  on — yes,  to-day's 
Friday.  He — he  may  know  about  the  other  man, 
you  know." 

"Yeth,"  said  Lisbeth  vaguely  comforted. 

At  eight  that  evening  Miss  Incell  walked  for  the 
first  time  since  her  accident,  unaided  by  crutch  or 
cane,  into  her  parlor  which  was  also  her  study  and 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  145 

dining-room,  and  there  Overman  was  waiting  for 
her.  The  soft  folds  of  her  only  evening  gown 
trailed  flimsily  behind  her.  Her  trim  little  figure 
was  most  appropriately  draped  and  she  held  her 
self  as  women  do  when  prettily  dressed,  with  a 
recognition  of  the  carriage  that  finery  obliges;  a 
cult  no  woman  needs  to  be  taught.  Through  the 
modest  decolletage  of  lace  the  warm  tint  of  her 
throat  gleamed  softly,  and  she  was  conscious  in 
every  fibre  of  her  body  of  being  guilty  of  an  absurd 
and  unworthy  action,  in  receiving  such  a  caller  in 
so  pretentious  a  gown;  all  of  which  only  made  her 
hold  her  small  head  very  high  to  still  the  acknow 
ledgment  of  the  justice  of  her  self-indictment,  and 
brought  the  blood  warmly  to  her  cheeks  and  lips 
and  an  added  sparkle  of  excitement  to  her  eyes. 

The  sight  of  him  opposite  in  tweeds,  his  soft 
shirt  with  the  low  collar  and  flowing  tie,  his  hat 
still  in  his  hand  marked  the  thought  she  was  trying 
to  escape,  and  at  the  same  time  sent  an  altogether 
feminine  thrill  of  rejoicing  through  her,  that  he 
stood  as  straight  and  strong  before  her  in  this  at 
least  half-conventional  dress  as  he  had  in  the 
easier  garments  he  wore  when  they  first  met. 

"And  you're  not  ill — I'm  so  glad,"  he  said 
holding  her  hand  and  looking  down  upon  her  as 
upon  something  strange  yet  familiar,  as  though  she 
were  a  re-discovery  and  a  new  one  at  the  same 


146  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

time.       "  I    never    knew  you    were    beautiful — 
Jessie,"  he  said  slowly. 

"I'm  not — my  gown  may  be.  But  I  never 
knew  you  were  gallant." 

"I'm  not,  or  I  couldn't  pay  so  clumsy  a  compli 
ment.  But  it's  good  to  see  you  looking  so  well  and 
walking,  too.  .  .  .  What  does  your  letter  mean, 
Jessie  ?" 

His  directness  sent  a  shiver  through  her. 

"It's — it's  that  silly  Lisbeth's  fault,  "  she  stam 
mered.  "I'll  explain  it  all.  Sit  down  first  and  tell 
me  about  Hilma  and  Donaghey.  It  seems  months 
since  I  saw  them.  But  you're  not  looking  well, 
yourself.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Is  the  world  grow 
ing  heavy,  Anthony  ?  Can't  you  settle  all  the 
doubts  and  distractions  of  humanity — theoretically 
and  without  getting  thin  and  lanky  ?  Or  have  you 
discovered,  you  great  man,  that  you  can't  do  it 
all  with  one  hand  tied  behind  you?" 

"It  isn't  the  world—  "  he  laughed. 

"But?" 

r'The  flesh  and  the  devil,  I  suppose.  But  I'm 
all  right.  So  are  they  both  up  there.  Hilma  gave 
me  a  dozen  messages.  But  she  told  me  at  last  to 
forget  all  of  them  and  remember  only  to  bring  you 
back  with  me  that  she  might  nurse  you.  I  had 
told  her  you  were  ill.  Your  letter— 

"You  ought  to  be  grateful  for  it,"  she  inter- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  147 

jected  hurriedly  and  as  pertly  as  possible,  "for 
bringing  you  down  to  see  me,  even  if  it  was  all  the 
maid's  blunder.  Let  me  see,  what  was  in  that 
silly  letter?" 

"The  real  beating  of  a  human  heart,"  he  cried 
catching  both  her  hands  and  holding  them  tight. 
"Jessie — you  can't  have  forgotten  a  word  of  that 
letter;  I  didn't  write  it,  I  have  only  read  it  a  few 
times,  but  it  beats  here  against  my  heart  like 
something  animate." 

A  softness  that  was  like  a  veil  fell  over  her  face 
and  figure.  She  sat  in  silence  for  the  barest  second, 
then  she  withdrew  her  hands  from  his  and  walked 
away  toward  the  window.  Her  step  was  sure. 
So  was  her  voice  when  she  spoke. 

"Did  it  strike  you  that  way  ?"  she  asked  lightly. 
"I  have  often  wondered  how  much  of  the  writer 
the  receiver  himself  puts  into  a  letter.  If  you  had 
read  such  a  letter  written  by  a  girl  you  had  never 
seen  to  some  man,  a  friend  of  yours,  what  would 
you  have  thought  of  it  ?  The  thing  was  done,  of 
course,  as  a  literary  speculation.  I  present  the 
problem  in  a  literary  sense,  you  understand." 

"And  I  am  altogether  unconcerned  as  to  its 
literary  sense.— Jessie — 

"That  nonthenthical  Lithbeth!"  lisped  Miss 
Incell  imitating  the  luckless  maid  with  a  lightness 
and  verve  that  seemed  to  increase  with  the  vi- 


148  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

brant  emotion  in  Overman's  voice.  "  The  de 
fect  in  her  speech  seems  to  be  accompanied  by 
another  in  her  comprehension.  She  simply  can't 
get  things  straight.  She  will  come  in  answer  to 
my  bell  though  every  time  she  does  anything  for 
me  it's  as  forceless  and  indefinite  as  the  way  she 
talks.  I  said  to  her  plainly — 'Go  to  the  desk  and 
take  out  a  note  I've  just  written  to  Doctor  Baum- 
felder.  Write  at  the  bottom  of  it  that  I'm  not 
real  well  and  that  I  want  to  see  him.'  Now, 
would  you  believe  that  little  goose  could  mistake 
it  for  the  long  tirade,  a  mythical  letter  I  had  written 
to  a  mythical  Anthony,  just  as  a  tentative  literary 
effort — you  know,  sometimes  I  think  I  could 
write  stories  and — and  yet- 
But  he  would  not  listen  any  longer. 
"Oh,  but  you  see,"  he  cried,  "you  did  write  it 
Jessie  Incell!  You  did  feel  it.  You  must  have, 
or  you  couldn't  have  written  like  that.  The 
Anthony  worthy  of  such  a  letter  may  be  mythical 
—I  know  no  man  who  deserves  it — but  the  girl 
— the  girl  is  true,  real,  adorable!  She — 

"The  girl," — her  voice  fluted  with  a  gayety 
that  swept  like  a  starling  over  the  roof  of  his 
earnestness  and  left  him  dazed  behind  and  below, 
"the  girl  is  ten  times,  a  hundred  times  more  mythi 
cal  than  the  man.  For  she  was  a  conscious  myth. 
She  could  feel  the  nothingness  of  herself  as  she 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  149 

wrote,  and  the  less  than  nothingness  of  the  flimsy 
soul — she  didn't  have.  She  was  a  lark,  a  ca 
price,  a  literary  whim,  the  pen  and  ink  shadow  of 
a  mood,  a  sort  of  legible  blot  shaken  on  a  white 
paper  by  fancy,  and  just  by  chance  crystallizing 
into  words.  And  chance  sent  the  wordy  picture 
of  that  queer,  unfeminine  creature  up  to  you.  I'm 
amazed  that  she  deceived  you  into  taking  her  ser 
iously  for  a  moment — that  silly,  hysterical  nonen 
tity,  with  all  her  exaggeration,  her  sentimentality, 
her  .  .  .  Of  course,"  she  added  glancing  at 
him  over  her  shoulder,  "there  was  a  basis  of  truth 
to  work  on.  That's  what  helped  the  little  fake  to 
impose  upon  you,  I  suppose.  You  knew,  of 
course,  that  another  girl  whose  handwriting  this 
freak  imitated  did  feel  a  warm  friendship  for  a 
man  whom,  even  if  he  is  an  altruistic  myth,  she 
would  be  sincerely  glad  to  see.  And  so  I  am  glad, 
Anthony,  to  see  you." 

She  turned  from  the  window  holding  out  a  hand 
with  the  cheeriest,  calmest  cordiality. 

He  did  not  take  it.  So  she  did  herself  and  sat 
down  in  the  window  seat,  looking  at  the  hand  she 
held  with  interest,  as  though  it  were  something 
new  and  of  value. 

He  stood,  intently  looking  down  upon  her  as 
she  sat  there.  There  was  something  capricious, 
provoking  about  her  very  attitude,  about  the 


150  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

buckled  slipper  bedded  in  the  ruffled  edge  of  her 
trailing  gown;  something  altogether  unlike  any 
mood  of  herself  as  he  had  known  her,  something 
markedly,  consciously,  intentionally  feminine, 
something  subtle  and  evasive  and  intangible  that 
made  her  seem  strange  to  him  yet  did  not  repel 
him,  whatever  her  desire. 

"And  so  you  repudiate  the  letter?"  he  de 
manded. 

She  looked  up  at  him  standing  over  her,  a  radi 
ance  of  content  in  her  face;  then  let  her  lids  fall, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  lightly  assented. 

"Well— I  am  glad  of  it." 

She  almost  started  to  her  feet. 

"  For  there  is  part  of  it  which  I,  too,  don't  care  to 
accept.  I  don't  want  to  share  your  sex,  Jessie. 
Nor  would  I  have  you  share  mine.  I  want- 
He  stopped  and  looked  down  as  if  begging  for 
pity  from  this  gay  girl,  who  seemed  untouched  by 
the  thing  that  had  so  changed  him  he  hardly  knew 
himself. 

"But  you  do  want  to  come  down  to  San  Fran 
cisco,  don't  you?  I  do  hope  you  will,"  she  said 
in  a  quite  friendly,  patronizing  voice. 

"What  should  I  come  to  San  Francisco  for?" 
he  cried.  "What  should  I  change  the  whole 
course  of  my  life  for  ?  Why  should  I  turn  my 
back  on  the  things  I  intended  to  devote  my  whole 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  151 

life  to  and  but  give  to  them  only  what's  left  over  ? 
Why  should  I  put  myself  in  a  false  position  with 
myself  and  try  to  fit  myself  into  a  place  that  was 
not  made  for  me  nor  for  which  I  was  intended  ? 
What  for — what  for — except  for  one  thing!" 

She  put  her  hand  to  a  pert  little  bow  in  her  hair 
and  patted  it  pleasantly.  In  her  attitude  there  was 
gentle,  polite  attention,  a  distant  patience  that 
came  to  him,  though  he  hardly  realized  it  then,  as 
the  cold,  sweet  breath  of  a  glacier.  But  he  had 
lost  command  of  his  impressions;  it  was  expres 
sion  that  he  craved,  that  his  whole  being  was  bent 
upon,  that  would  not  be  turned  aside  nor  stifled. 

"  Look  at  me,  Jessie,  look  at  me — a  fellow  with 
no  home,  no  place,  no  future,  no  friends,  no  posi 
tion.  With  not  even  himself  to  give  to  the  making 
of  all  these,  for  that  self  is  vowed  to  other  things— 
once,  by  will,  but  now,  despite  it,  but  still  unalter 
ably.  A  strayed  idealist,  an  unballasted  tramp, 
at  war  with  society  and  with  not  even  a  theory 
that  he  dreams  will  correct  it.  A  fellow  that 
comes  from  nowhere  and  doesn't  know  where  he 
is  bound  for.  A  credulous  simpleton,  too,  or  he 
wouldn't  have  been  taken  in  by  a  Senn.  A  re 
former  without  a  party,  a  crank  without  a  definitely 
besetting  formula.  If  I  had  the  world  in  my  hands 
to-day,  I  might  set  the  Single  Tax  in  operation— 
another  man's  solution,  not  mine — and  this  fail- 


152  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

ing,  I  could  but  do  for  the  individual  as  I  would 
to-day — give  myself  up  individually  to  him! 

"And  yet  this  man  you've  made  your  friend- 
can  you  realize  of  what  he  is  dreaming  ? — Of 
—love,  of  marriage!  Oh,  laugh  Jessie,  laugh  at 
the  presumptuous  fool  whose  theories  were  not 
madder  than  is  his  practice!  He  must  fall  in  love, 
this  altruist  who  was  to  give  himself  and  all  he— 
hadn't  to  the  world.  And  if  his  passions  had  been 
stirred  by  the  simplest,  humblest  creature,  by  that 
maid  who  opened  the  door,  he  would  owe  her 
apology,  don't  you  think  ?  But  no,  he  must  love 
one  who  is  farther  from  him  than  an  heiress  to 
millions  would  be,  for  she  is  a  producer  where 
he  is  not.  She  is  a  success  where  he  is  nothing; 
not  even  a  failure  for  he  has  not  even  attempted. 
Though  younger  than  he,  she  has  made  a  position 
for  herself.  If — if  he  were  to  try  for  a  station 
whence  he  might  reach  out  hungering  arms  to 
her,  he  would  owe  the  very  fulcrum  he'd  place  his 
lever  against,  to  herself.  And  he  a  man — and  she 
a  girl!  A  pitiable  figure — isn't  he — Jessie!" 

"Yes." 

The  low  word  came  gently,  with  an  impersonal 
sympathy.  Miss  Incell  seemed  to  be  listening 
patiently  while  her  eyes  were  occupied  in  watching 
the  pale  bay  beneath. 

His  hands  fell  to  his  side  as  though  the  word  she 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  153 

spoke  had  released  a  spring.  He  looked  from  the 
small,  well-set  head  below  his  eyes  to  the  wide, 
ocean  fed  water  beyond.  His  face,  older  than  his 
years  and  thin  now  and  grave,  settled  slowly  into 
heavily  marked  lines.  And  he  stood  looking  out 
for  a  moment  that  was  like  a  long,  hard  year  to 
her.  The  palms  of  her  hands  bore  the  marks  of 
her  fingernails,  but  she  sat  still,  waiting. 

His  voice  was  very  gentle  when  he  spoke  again. 

"I  love  you  with  all  my  soul,  Jessie.  I  didn't 
know  what  it  was  that  took  other  men  out  of  them 
selves  and  set  their  feet  in  strange  paths  they 
hadn't  willed  to  walk  in,  till  you  came  up  there. 
And  I  never  knew  what  despair  can  wring  man's 
selfish  soul  till  you  left.  The  balm  went  out  of 
the  evening.  The  forest  became  hard  and  literal. 
It  lost  not  only  the  gracious  glamor  your 
presence  had  given  it,  but  the  freshness  and  suc 
couring  strength  it  has  had  for  me  since,  when  a 
boy,  I  first  became  conscious  of  it.  I  fainted  for 
lack  of  you,  dear.  I  longed— I  longed  for  you  in 
shame,  in  agony  of  mind,  in  exultation.  And  the 
poorest  fellow  whose  hopes  never  soared  above 
his  bed  and  food  was  not  poorer  than  I — I  with 
all  my  theories  and  plans  and  hopes! 

"Then  your  letter  came.  You  can  see  now 
why  I  read  into  it  the  thing  that  possessed  me,  that 
sat  at  table  with  me,  that  beckoned  me  out  into 


154  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

the  woods  and  laughed  at  me  and  yet  came  back 
at  night  to  lie  down  with  me.  You  gave  me  only 
your  bright,  cheery  friendship  and  I,  like  a  vain 
fool,  misunderstood.  That's  all.  But  I  love 
you.  And  I  don't  regret  it.  And  you  must  not. 
For  it's  a  possession — this  love  of  mine  for  you, 
dear — that  makes  me  rich  and,  though  unhappy, 
—happy.  So 

He  held  out  his  hand.  But  she  lifted  up  her 
arms  and  pulled  him  down  to  her  and,  laying  her 
cheek  beside  his,  she  sobbed, 

"Why  didn't  you  say  it  all — that  night  I  left, 
when  I  was  just — hungering  for  a  word  from 
you!" 


'Why  didn't  you  say  it  all  — that  night  I  left,  when  I  was  just  — hungering 
for  a  word  from  you  ! '  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

TIfHERE'S   Haydon?"   asked    the    red-haired 
office-boy  who   had   just    come    in    from 
lunch. 

As  he  spoke,  he  flipped  a  square  of  cardboard 
with  his  little  finger:  one  of  those  printed  blanks 
furnished  the  numerous  people  who  wanted  to  see 
the  editor,  in  order  that  they  might  classify  them 
selves  and  save  him  the  trouble. 

"I'm  looking  for  the  city  editor,"  he  went  on 
shrilly.  "  Man  says  assistant  city  won't  do. " 

"Don't  look,"  said  Morgan,  not  troubling  him 
self  to  glance  up  from  the  desk,  while  he  stretched 
out  his  hand. 

The  red-haired  boy's  eyes  measured  his  superior. 
He  hesitated  just  an  instant,  then  placed  the  card 
in  Morgan's  outstretched  hand. 

"I  congratulate  ye,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  said  in  the 
formal  sing-song  which  he  felt  the  occasion 
demanded.  "Mr.  Haydon  was  on  the  desk, 
though,  when  I  went  out  to  lunch.  Pretty  quick 
work!" 

"Mr.  Haydon,"  said  Morgan  with  deliberation, 
"has  got  a — a  leave  of  absence — 

'Thout  asking  for  it,  huh  ?"  grinned  the  boy. 

"Get  out  of  this,  Jimmy,  and  send  the  gent  in 
to  me.  And — you  might  take  this  with  you." 

'55 


156  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

The  new  city  editor  handed  the  boy  half  a  dollar. 
"It's  my  day  to  treat.  When  you  get  to  be  city 
editor  I'll  expect  as  much  from  you.  Tell  Mr. 
Mclntosh  I'll  see  him.  Confound  him!"  he 
added  under  his  breath  as  he  turned  back  to  his 
desk. 

But  Morgan's  antipathy  for  Mclntosh,  whom 
the  paper's  demagogic  policy  brought  often  to  the 
office,  was  no  secret.  He  detested  the  secretary 
of  the  labor  union  for  being  a  labor  union 
man,  and  secondly  for  being  himself.  All  Morgan's 
theories  of  the  unfitness  of  the  masses  for  power 
and  privilege  jangled  discordantly  with  the  ideas 
of  this  representative  of  the  working  people; 
and  all  his  personal  distaste  for  slowness  of  body 
and  literal,  wooden  seriousness  crystallized  at 
sight  of  the  Scotchman,  for  whom  all  the  world 
was  divided  into  union  and  anti-union. 

He  stopped  at  the  door  surprised  when  he  saw 
Morgan. 

"I  had  told  the  boy  especially  that  I  wanted 
to  see  no  representative,"  he  said  with  a  clear 
pronunciation  of  "r's"  and  a  broad  "a,"  which 
was  all  there  was  in  his  speech  to  prove  his  origin. 
"I  have  something  to  say  to  Mr.  Hay  don,  the  city 
editor,  pairsonally." 

Morgan  rose  with  a  courtesy  that  was  utterly 
foreign  to  him  in  his  journalistic  dealings  with 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  157 

men.  It  was  just  his  luck,  he  was  exclaiming  to 
himself,  that  the  first  caller  at  the  city  editor's 
desk  after  he  had  taken  charge  should  be  this 
man. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Mclntosh,  now  that 
you  are  here?"  He  placed  a  chair  cordially. 
"The  boys  in  the  office  are  demoralized;  they 
can't  be  taught  evidently  to  deliver  a  message 
properly.  Mr.  Haydon  is — under  the  weather 
this  afternoon  and— 

"I  can  wait  till  to-morrow;"  Mclntosh  stood 
grimly  ignoring  the  chair. 

"And  I  really  am  afraid  he'll  not  be  on  deck 
for  some  time.  Now  if  there's  anything  I  can 
do " 

"No. — No,  thank  ye.  Mr.  Haydon's  not  left 
the  paper?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"Left  the  paper?"  repeated  Morgan  as  though 
he  had  not  quite  caught  the  words. 

He  marveled  at  Haydon's  capacity  for  pla 
cating  this  man  and  getting  news  out  of  him; 
a  capacity  which  he  himself  must  develop  if 
he  did  not  want  the  office  to  draw  invidious  com 
parisons. 

Mclntosh  sniffed  dryly;  a  sophisticated  sniff 
it  was,  signifying  that  the  ways  and  wiles  of  jour 
nalism  were  not  strange  to  him. 

"I  thought  perhaps  he  might  have  quit,"  he 


158  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

said  sarcastically.  "It  make  no  difference.  I 
could  trust  Haydon,"  he  added  lingeringly. 

Haydon's  successor  cursed  him  within  his 
heart.  But  he  smiled  blandly  as  he  asked. 

"And  how  do  you  know  you  can't  trust  me,  Mr. 
Mclntosh?" 

"I  don't,"  replied  the  labor  union  secretary. 
"But  neither  do  I." 

"You've  come  to  a  decision  about  whether  to 
declare  a  strike  or  not?"  asked  Morgan,  coming 
to  a  decision  himself  that  he  must  strike  now  or 
his  visitor  and  his  opportunity  might  be  gone  be 
fore  he  could. 

Mclntosh  rubbed  his  sandy  side-whiskers,  while 
he  looked  at  Morgan  out  of  narrowed,  non 
committal  gray  eyes. 

"Ah've  no  authority,"  he  said  cannily,  "to 
divulge  the  secrets  of  the  union." 

"No — no,  of  course  not."  Morgan  said  to 
himself  that  nothing  would  delight  him  more  than 
to  take  labor's  representative  and  choke  the  truth 
out  of  him. 

"The  union,"  said  Mclntosh  didactically, 
"believes  in  treating  all  the  newspapers  alike. 
The  cause  of  labor" — Morgan  gritted  his  teeth. 
"Eh  ?  The  great  cause  which  I  have  the  honor 
to  represent  is  no  light  thing  to  lend  itself  to 
unscrupulous  purposes." 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  159 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Mclntosh,  thoroughly," 
declared  Morgan.  "  But  the  Inquirer  has  been 
a  steadfast  friend  to  labor  and— 

"And  why  not?"  demanded  Mclntosh  quickly. 
"It  lives  by  the  nickels  of  the  working  class." 

"And  the  working  class,"  rejoined  Morgan 
angrily,  "gets  at  least  five  cents'  worth  for  every 
nickel  invested." 

Mclntosh  stared  at  him  a  moment. 

"Na  doubt,"  he  said  rising  slowly,  "na  doubt. 
Ah'll  bid  ye  good-day,  sir,  and  I  hope  I  haven't 
taken  up  too  much  of  your  valuable  time." 

"Good-day — not  at  all,"  said  Morgan  with  an 
emphasis  that  did  not  deceive  his  visitor. 

The  memory  of  his  first  detail  came  back  to  the 
newspaperman.  He  had  not  wanted  anything 
as  he  wanted  this  man's  confidence,  since  that 
far-off  first  day  of  trial.  But  while  he  stood 
hesitating  yet  helpless,  Mclntosh  himself  opened 
the  door  and  brushed  against  a  man  just  about  to 
knock. 

"Why  if  it  isn't  Mr.  Overmon,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Are  ye  on  the  Inquirer,  too?  Well,  well — if 
I  had  known 

Morgan  caught  at  a  straw.  "You  know  Over 
man  ?"  he  cried. 

Mclntosh  smiled  dryly.  "Not  as  a  reporter," 
he  said,  "as  a  human  being.  I  know  pairsonally 


160  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

of  the  boys  he  has  sent  to  the  Refuge  Home,  for 
my  brother's  carpenter  there  and  has  told  me  of 
it." 

"Good!"  Morgan  took  Overman's  arm,  which 
he  pressed  fondly  as  well  as  significantly.  "Come 
in,  Overman.  Perhaps  you  can  persuade  Mr. 
Mclntosh  that  the  paper's  his  very  good  friend. 
Take  a  seat — take  a  seat — I  'm  going  out  to  see 
Baxter  and  you  can  have  the  place  to  yourselves." 
He  made  delightedly  for  the  door. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Morgan,"  Overman  said  try 
ing  to  detain  him,"  I  wanted  to  explain  to  Mr. 
Haydon,  who  sent  me  out  to  see  the  Reverend 
Grant  MacMillan,  what  a  pitiful— 

"Never  mind  that";  Morgan  waved  all  lesser 
matters  aside.  "I'll  'tend  to  Haydon's  end  of  it. 
Convince  Mclntosh  that  the  Inquirer  is  to  be 
trusted — that's  your  detail. " 

He  shut  the  door  upon  them  and  walked  out 
into  the  local  room. 

"Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  newspaper 
crown, "  commented  the  new  assistant  city  editor 
as  Morgan  passed  his  desk. 

"I  wouldn't  care  if  the  uneasy  lies  were  effica 
cious,"  Morgan  laughed  sitting  sideways  upon 
his  desk. 

The  assistant  city  editor  looked  up  with  quiz 
zing  sympathy.  He  was  a  man  about  fifty,  stout, 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  161 

pale,  with  a  heavy  mustache  and  a  hopeless  droop 
to  his  broad  shoulders.  He  knew  no  elation  over 
his  new  position.  He  had  been  assistant  city 
editor  half  a  dozen  times  before.  He  had  been 
assistant  Sunday  editor  and  assistant  night  edi 
tor.  He  wras  always  assistant-something  or  other, 
yet  he  never  attained  the  office  to  which  his  deputy- 
ship  was  the  natural  stepping-stone.  Chiefs  died, 
resigned,  or  wrere  deposed,  but  chieftainship  was 
not  for  Baxter.  Some  younger  man,  some  new 
man,  some  unknown  man  was  invariably  put  over 
his  head.  And  he  had  borne  the  insult  so  long 
that  neither  he  nor  the  office  considered  it  such 
any  longer.  He  was  a  hopeless  man,  a  pessimist, 
of  course,  but  he  had  grown  to  identify  his  mis 
fortune  with  an  abstract  malice  of  Fate's,  and  he 
never  made  an  enemy  of  his  new  superior,  for  the 
honest  belief  he  had  that  the  new  man  was  but  the 
blameless  instrument  of  the  cruel  goddess.  He 
looked  at  Morgan  now  with  a  smile  that  had  no 
malice  in  it. 

"It  was  beastly  luck,  Dean,  that  your  first  visi 
tor  should  be  Mclntosh." 

"Beastly?"  exclaimed  Morgan.  "You  weakly 
understate,  Baxter.  The  only  man  in  town  before 
whom  I  didn't  dare  to  flaunt  my  new  title!" 

Baxter  laughed  quietly.  When  he  laughed 
his  pallid  face  became  like  a  basin  of  dough, 


1 62  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

dimpled  and  wrinkled  by  the  fermenting  joke 
below. 

"Was  he  very  nasty?"     he  chuckled. 

"I  just  yearned  to  break  his  face.  How  do  you 
suppose  Hay  don  managed  him?" 

Baxter  shrugged  his  big,  hopeless  shoulders 
beneath  the  dirty  white  of  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"Did  you  give  him  up  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  passed  him  over  to  Overman.  God  sent 
Overman  in  at  the  very  crisis.  I  believe  He  desires 
that  I  remain  city  editor  of  the  Inquirer.  It 
suits  His  editorial  policy  evidently.  ...  I  say, 
what's  this  about  a  Refuge  Home  and  boys  and 
Overman  and  the  rest  of  it." 

Baxter  spat  leisurely;  he  was  chewing. 

"  Didn't  know  you'd  heard  that  'God-sent  Over 
man.'  It's  what  the  boys  call  him,"  he  went  on 
in  answer  to  a  negative  gesture  of  Morgan's. 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  was  sent  to  rescue  Miss  Incell 
from  marrying — a  certain  newspaper  man." 

Morgan  laughed,  and  flushed. 

"Bah!"  he  said  good-naturedly,  "there's  noth 
ing  in  that.  The  fellow  amuses  her,  keeps  her 
interested.  He's  such  an  out-and-out  crank." 

"That's  what  has  taken  him  to  the  Refuge 
Home.  He  picks  up  kids  on  the  street  when  they're 
dirty  enough,  vile  enough,  wretched  enough  to  suit 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  163 

his  taste — they  get  to  like  their  misery  highly 
spiced,  these  cranks,  in  the  same  way  that  con 
noisseurs  like  rotten  cheese,  you  know.  He  has  'em 
washed,  the  kids,  and  fed  and  dressed  and  then 
sends  'em  off  for  a  term  of  years  to  various  institu 
tions.  The  term  varies  according  to  how  much 
he's  got  left  over  from  last  pay-day.  Haydon 
gave  him  the  misery  details  always;  sort  of  recog 
nition,  I  suppose,  of  his  ex-officio  character.  He's 
just  been  sent  out  to  see  the  Reverend  Grant  Mac- 
Millan,  who  has  landed  at  the  city  jail  after  a  spree 
once  too  often.  This  time  he's  held  for  theft.  He 
steals,  you  know,  when  he's  full." 

"Good  story!" 

"Yep.  MacMillan  wouldn't  see  anybody. 
The  city  hall  man  telephoned  in  that  the  parson 
sits  shivering  in  his  cell  and  positively  won't  see 
one  of  the  fellows  out  there.  So  Haydon  sent 
Overman  out." 

Morgan  stared. 

"  You  mean  you  don't  know  'God-sent  Overman* 
in  the  role  of  a  crack-a-jack,"  Baxter  said  trans 
lating  the  other's  attitude.  "No — he  may  not 
have  a  record  for  scoops,  but  he's  go-od — with  a 
circumflex  accent,  as  mothers  say  of  their  ugly 
daughters,  you  know.  But  Haydon  just  sent 
Overman  out  blind,  hoping  he'd  hit  the  trail 
with  blind  luck.  He  didn't  dare  confide  in  him 


164  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

what  he  hoped  of  him — for  good  and  sufficient 
reasons.  What  did  he  get?" 

"Don't  know.  I  wouldn't  listen  to  him  when 
he  started  to  tell  me;  just  pushed  him  and  Mcln- 
tosh  into  each  other's  arms  and  left  the  rest  to 
God,"  said  Morgan  with  that  calm,  unspecialized 
irreverence  that  often  characterized  his  informal 
allusions  to  Deity.  "There  they  come  now. 
Pray  for  me,  Baxter.  You'll  be  city  editor  if 
I'm  scooped  on  this  strike  business." 

"Not  I."  Baxter  grinned  sardonically. "  Some 
other  fellow  that's  never  handled  a  blue  pencil  in  all 
his  life." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate,  sir ! "  roared  Morgan 
bombastically. 

He  waved  a  farewell  to  Mclntosh,  who  seemed 
anxious  to  hurry  away,  and  watched  him  eagerly 
till  he  got  out  of  the  door. 

"Well,  Overman,"  he  said  anxiously,  "what 
did  you  get  out  of  him  ?" 

"Nothing,  but  this.  He  suggested  that  I  go  up 
to  Sacramento  to  see  Jared  and  tell  him — 

"Oh,  that's  all,  is  it  ?"  Morgan's  voice  was  oily 
with  happiness.  "Scoot  then,  old  man,  the  next 
train — let  me  see — 

"I  wish,  Mr.  Morgan,"  Overman  interrupted 
impatiently,  "that  you  would  give  me  time 
to  talk  to  you  about  the  Reverend  Grant  Mac- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  165 

Millan.  It's  a  very  important  and  pathetic  case 
and— 

"And  this  is  even  more  important  and  might 
have  been  fearfully  pathetic  for  me,  if  you  hadn't 
just  happened  in.  Overman,  I'll  owe  you  my 
official  head  if  we  get  a  beat  on  this  strike.  No,  I 
can't  listen.  Your  train  leaves  at  three — good. 
That'll  give  you  time  to  wire  down  your  stuff  be 
fore  midnight.  Go,  and  may  heaven  speed  your 
footsteps." 

Overman  thought  a  moment.     Then  he  yielded. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  have  time  to  write  a 
note  first.  I  can  get  to  the  ferry  in  ten  minutes." 

He  hurried  to  his  desk  and  pulling  out  a  wad  of 
paper,  began  to  write. 

"Jessica,  darlin', 

I'm  off  in  five  minutes  to  Sacramento  to  get 
an  interview  with  Jared.  I  particularly  don't 
want  to  go  for  there's  a  man  out  at  the  city  prison 
that  needs  help.  You  must  go  to  him  for  me. 
Ask  for  the  Reverend  Grant  MacMillan  and  say 
that  I  sent  you,  so  that  he  will  see  you.  Assure 
him  for  me  that  the  moment  I  get  back  I'll  come 
out  to  see  him.  Tell  him  that  he  can  count  ab 
solutely  on  me,  that  I  am  thinking  every  moment 
of  his  case,  that  he  shall  have  the  money  to  make 
good  what  he  has  taken,  that  I  have  written 
Donaghey  and  Hilma  to  expect  him,  and  that  after 
he  gets  well  up  in  the  mountains,  I  shall  find  work 


166  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

for  him   through    Mclntosh — and   that   all  I  ask 
of  him,  all  that  he  owes  me  is  not  to  despair. 

"Dear  Little  Lady  Love,  do  this  for  me,  for  my 
heart  is  sore  and  my  mind  is  terribly  troubled  for 
this  man,  who  is  cursed  beyond  human  nature's 
capacity  to  withstand. 

In  a  hurry — O." 


CHAPTER   XII 

TV  TISS  INCELL  laid  aside  her  Sunday  story— 
most  of  her  writing  was  done  at  home — 
and  standing  before  her  mirror  reached  for 
her  hat.  But  she  withdrew  her  hat-pins  in  a 
tentative,  preoccupied  way,  and  then  re-read 
Overman's  note.  She  set  the  hat  firmly  on  her 
head  and  fastened  her  veil.  And  then  she  glanced 
thoughtfully  over  the  page  again.  After  this  she 
slipped  into  her  jacket  and  took  up  her  gloves — 
when  it  seemed  necessary  that  she  should  again 
read  Overman's  letter.  She  walked  to  the  door 
with  the  air  of  one  who  does  a  thing  with  only  half 
one's  mind,  and  then  she  retraced  her  steps,  took 
the  letter  up  from  the  dressing-table  and  read  it 
still  another  time. 

"Would  you  call  that  a  love-letter,  Miss  Incell  ?" 
she  said,  disdainfully  questioning  her  image  in  the 
glass.  "It's  the  first  you've  got  from  him — such 
as  it  is.  His  heart  is  sore  and  his  mind  is  terribly 
troubled.  About  you  ?  No,  you  conceited  miss. 
About  a  drunken  preacher  that  he  never  saw  till 
to-day.  But  .  .  ."  She  held  the  sheets  of 
copy  paper,  upon  which  the  note  had  been 
hastily  scrawled,  before  her  lips  as  though 
breathing  her  words  into  it.  "I'd  rather  have 
you  with  your  two  words  of  love  from  him  than 

167 


168  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

a  volume  of  gush  from  any  other  man — God 
love  him!" 

She  slipped  the  note  into  her  satchel  and  sallied 
forth  on  her  mission,  chuckling  to  herself  at  the 
thought  of  a  yellow  journalist  in  the  role  of  maid 
of  mercy. 

She  nodded  amicably  to  the  policeman  at  the 
iron  door  before  the  prison.  The  police  were 
Miss  Incell's  very  good  friends.  She  was  a  huge 
joke  to  them,  her  part  in  the  dirty  cases  they 
handled  appearing  to  them  like  the  role  a  piquant, 
malicious  wax  doll  might  play  in  a  cast  of  bulldogs. 

"Good-evenin',  Miss  Incell!"  grinned  the  police 
man  on  guard.  "Back  again  are  ye  ?  My — my — 
but  'tis  a  bad  sign  that  ye  can  nivver  kape  long 
out  o'  jail!" 

"Good-evening,  Officer  McNally.  How  in  the 
world  do  you  expect  a  body  to  keep  away  from  the 
place  where  you  are,  tell  me!" 

"Oah!"  A  heave  of  laughter  hoisted  McNally's 
belt-buckle,  resting  like  a  boat  low  on  the  horizon 
of  the  capacious  sea  of  his  stomach.  "Divvle  a 
wonder  'tis  ye  get  what  ye  want,  young  leddy. " 

The  cachinnatory  disturbance  to  McNally's 
official  formality  subsided  slowly.  He  was  still 
wheezing  with  appreciation  when  Miss  Incell 
hurried  through  the  corridor  and  reached  the  desk. 

"You've  struck  the  impossible  this  time,  Miss 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  169 

Incell,"  the  sergeant  said  when  she  made  her  re 
quest.  "The  preacher  won't  see  you.  He  pos 
itively  refuses  to  talk  to  anybody  except  a  queer 
chap  who  actually— 

"Well,  I  come  from  that  same  queer  chap," 
she  interrupted.  "Tell  Mr.  MacMillan  that  I 
come  from  Mr.  Overman.  He's  a  particular 
friend  of  mine." 

The  sergeant  looked  at  her  a  moment  scratch 
ing  his  chin  gravely.  Then  a  light  seemed  to  dawn 
upon  him;  a  light  that  illumined  the  way  of  the 
determined  journalist.  He  winked — a  solemn, 
experienced,  appreciative  wink — and  himself  went 
off  with  the  message. 

He  returned  followed  by  the  minister. 
"It  will  be  pleasanter  for  you  and  Miss  Incell 
to  talk  here,"  he  said  in  a  carelessly  official  tone. 
In  an  aside  to  Miss  Incell,  he  said  quickly,  "Make 
hay  while  the  sun  shines;  he'll  bolt  the  minute  he 
finds  out  you're  a  reporter." 

Miss  Incell  thanked  him  and  waved  him  away. 
Her  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  thin,  wretched  look 
ing  man  approaching  and  upon  the  great  coat  that 
covered  his  shivering,  nerve-racked  body — An 
thony  Overman's  top  coat,  the  one  he  had  bought 
just  a  week  before.  Miss  Incell  was  observant; 
she  recognized  it.  It  had  been  particularly  dear 
to  her  for  it  had  given  an  air  of  comfortable,  citi- 


1 70  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

fied  largeness  to  her  lover's  figure.  She  experi 
enced  a  feeling  of  wrathful  impatience  with  the 
giver  and  resentment  for  the  recipient,  but  she 
forgot  both  in  the  shock  of  hearing  MacMillan's 
voice. 

"Pardon  me,  Madam,  you  see  what  a  wretched 
creature  I  am.  My  very  wretchedness  gives  me 
a  claim,  I  think,  upon  your  forbearance.  Did  I 
hear  the  sergeant  say  you  are  a  reporter  ?" 

It  was  such  a  voice,  though  weak  and  ragged, 
as  one  hears  in  pulpits  that  are  filled  by  excep 
tional  men;  in  drawing-rooms  that  are  frequented 
by  people  of  leisure  and  culture;  and  on  the  stage 
rarely  when  talent  and  grace  of  mind  are  joined. 
It  was  the  gentleman's  voice,  the  unmistakable 
accent  with  all  that  it  connotes. 

"I'm  Miss  Incell  of  the  Inquirer.  But  I  was 
sent  here  by  Mr.  Overman,  a  particular  friend  of 
mine,"  she  said  gently. 

"It  is  extremely  painful  to  me  to  meet  a  lady." 
With  an  eloquent  gesture  he  included  his  shabbi- 
ness,  his  unshaven  face,  his  shame. 

"One  gets  to  think  of  oneself  merely  as  a  repor 
ter,  I  assure  you,"  she  said  quickly.  "Mr.  Over 
man  has  been  sent  out  of  town  unexpectedly  on  an 
important  detail,  but  he  wrote  me  a  hurried  note 
before  he  left  imploring  me  to  come  out  to  assure 
you  that "  She  drew  Overman's  letter  from  her 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  171 

satchel  and  read  aloud  the  part  that  concerned 
the  abject  creature  before  her,  emphasizing  the 
last  line — "All  that  he  owes  me  is  not  to  despair." 

It  was  habit,  a  method  of  work  that  had  often 
resulted  satisfactorily,  to  make  her  answer  some 
what  long.  Almost  mechanically,  even  as  she 
read,  her  mind  was  seizing  and  making  note  of  the 
characteristics  of  this  man's  face,  of  his  attitude, 
his  manner,  his  voice,  his  clothing,  his  surround 
ings.  He  sat  listening  to  Overman's  words,  a 
huddled  heap  of  wretchedness,  his  unshaven  face 
with  its  beard  of  a  week's  growth  gray  and  lifeless 
in  texture,  his  eyes  dull  and  miserable,  the  lines 
about  his  sensitive  mouth  cut  deep  with  bodily  and 
mental  agony. 

"Not  to  despair.  .  .  .  Not  to  despair!"  he 
repeated  after  her. 

"There  must  be  something  in  a  man,  upon 
which  those  who  are  helping  him  can  build — you 
know,"  she  suggested.  Her  voice  had  a  trick  of 
taking  the  tone  that  seemed  to  the  interviewed 
one  almost  a  continuation  of  his  own  thought. 

"Yes — I  know,"  he  said  slowly.  "But  is 
there  that  foundation  in  me  ?  Is  there  ?  Others 
have  built  on  me,  and  for  the  seeming  lack  of  it — 
that  something  in  self — the  whole  structure  has 
gone  down  like  a  card-house,  like  a  thing  planted 
on  quicksands.  I  have  been  honest  with  Mr. 


172  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Overman.  I  have  told  him  this.  Yet  his  hope, 
his  hope  for  me  has  kindled  something  in  me  that 
— almost  hopes,  too." 

Miss  Incell  sat  looking  at  him.  There  was  that 
in  the  listening  bend  of  her  head,  in  her  receptive 
attitude  that  drew  this  man  to  confidence.  She 
was  only  studying  him — not  unsympathetically. 
But  she  was  endowed  with  a  capacity  for  tem 
porarily  putting  herself  in  the  place  of  her  subject, 
while  he  was  her  subject,  that  was  unlimited  by 
difference  in  temperament  or  radical  diversity  of 
circumstance.  The  intelligent  light  in  her  pretty 
eyes,  the  mobility  of  her  bright  face  (upon  which  a 
speaker  whose  theme  was  anything  like  his  life's 
history,  his  honest  thought,  his  unaffected  belief 
and  unposed  attitude,  could  note  and  gather  the 
impression  he  made,  as  a  gardener  gathers  the 
flowers  from  the  seed  he  has  sown)  these  played 
upon  him,  drew  him  on. 

To  MacMillan,  a  man  beneath  his  own  con 
tempt,  a  gentleman  having  before  his  eyes  the 
coarse  prison  sights  and  the  vile  prison  sounds — 
classed  in  the  minds  of  his  keepers  with  the  vulgar 
criminals,  whom  he  despised  though  he  envied 
them  their  impudent  retention  of  self-respect;  and 
yet,  in  the  terrible  humility  of  his  judgment  upon 
himself,  held  them,  too,  as  better  than  a  man  of 
opportunities,  of  education,  of  position,  of  a  semi- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  173 

sacred  standing  fallen  lower  than  they — to  the 
minister,  there  v/as  something  irresistible  in  this 
girl's  readiness  to  listen.  It  soothed  his  esthetic 
sense  to  address  himself  to  the  gentlewoman's 
trim,  self-respecting  cleanliness  of  mind  and  body 
and  attire.  It  lifted  him  in  his  own  estimation— 
if  ever  so  little,  that  little  was  fearfully  precious  to 
him  in  the  depths  where  his  bruised  spirit  lay — to 
be  brought  in  contact  with  a  cultivated  mind,  now 
that  the  first  shock  of  consciousness  in  his  degrada 
tion  was  past.  In  a  way,  it  seemed  for  a  moment 
to  modify  that  intolerable  disgust  of  himself,  his 
declassed  self,  his  shamed,  unworthy  self  that  was 
to  him  now  like  some  bestial,  vile  garment  grown 
into  his  very  flesh,  inescapable,  close,  stifling  him 
with  the  corruption  of  its  near  presence.  And  to 
talk  to  her  gave  vent  to  the  congested  thoughts 
thrown  back  upon  themselves  and  pent  within  him. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  said  for  me — nothing. 
I  am  a  man  without  rights.  I  have  not  even  the 
right  to  object  to  the  use  men  make  of  me  as  a 
terrible  example.  I  have  had  my  chance — and 
another — and  another — and  again — and  after  that. 
Yet — unspeakable  wretch  that  I  am — there  is  one 
thing  about  me  that  merits  respect.  Yes,  respect." 

For  just  a  second  he  had  thrown  his  head  back 
assertively;  the  ghost  of  some  old  trick  of 
gesture  that  painted  him  for  just  that  fleeting 


174  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

instant  upon  his  listener's  consciousness,  with  the 
unspoiled,  potential  aureole  of  youth  about  that 
head.  She  saw,  like  something  risen  from  the 
dead  past,  the  boy's  well-shaped  head,  the  thinking, 
dreaming  forehead,  the  idealizing  eye  and  the 
weak,  pathetic  chin  and  sensitive,  unreliable 
mouth. 

"That  one  thing" — his  resumption  of  speech 
seemed  almost  incongruous  after  the  quick  vision 
she  had  seen — "is  that  I  try;  that  I  do  try;  that 
I  atone  when  I  can;  that  I  am  humble,  humbly 
eager  in  my  passionate  desire  to  regain — not  my 
position — but  my  own  self-respect.  This  last 
time,  all  I  asked  was  obscurity — merely  to  be  let 
alone  in  my  poverty  and  the  hard,  hard  work, 
which  was  better  than  I  deserve  for  it  was  re 
creating  me,  body  and  soul.  I  was  washing  dishes 
in  a  cheap  restaurant  .  .  .  He  put  out 

his  hands,  an  unconscious  gesture,  and  she  saw 
them  trembling,  roughened,  bruised,  but  the 
long-fingered,  speaking  hands  of  the  gentleman. 

"I  am  weak  physically  as  well  as  morally,"  he 
went  on  with  a  wry  smile,  "or  rather,  because 
I  am  so  morally — it  is  my  own  fault.  But  I  have 
endured  agony  enough,  standing  in  that  narrow 
box  washing  crates  of  heavy  crockery,  to  satisfy 
even  those  who  are  sinless,  if  it  could  be  made 
tangible  to  them.  But  a  minister  needs  a  topic 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  175 

for  a  sensational  sermon.  He  knows  me — I  mean 
he  has  known  me,  and  he  has  heard  what  a  wreck 
I  have  made  of  my  life.  So,  with  an  expression 
of  ineffable  disgust  on  his  righteous  face,  he  lifts 
his  ex-brother  minister  out  of  the  pool  of  vice  and 
sin;  lifts  him  high  upon  a  virtuous  pitchfork  of  un- 
charity  and  there,  all  reeking,  dripping  with  the 
loathsomeness  of  the  fall,  he  dissects  him  for  his 
congregation — and  the  papers,  which  the  next  day 
report  the  sermon  in  full,  with  an  added  article 
upon  the  present  whereabouts  of  the  shivering 
beast  in  question. 

"A  minister,  you  see — having  relinquished  by  his 
pretense  of  being  able  to  show  other  men  how  to 
live,  the  right  of  living  as  other  men  do,  of  being 
human  like  other  men — his  sin  is  not  only  a  blot 
upon  his  class,  it  is  an  aspersion  upon  that  very 
Divinity  he  dared  to  preach.  Oh,  I  know — I 
know!  Who  should  know  better  than  I — I,  who 
pretended  to  be  better  than  the  average  man  and 
fell  so  pitiably  far  below  him! 

"But,  you  see,  I  was  no  longer  a  minister. 
For  years,  the  beast  had  not  polluted  the  sanctuary. 
I  was  nothing — not  even  an  example  just  then. 
Just  a  dish-washer,  two  hands,  two  feet  to  stand 
upon,  endurance,  consciousness,  That  is  all  I 
was.  I  had  not  even  vices.  I  was  sober.  And 
then — suddenly  came  this  pillorying  again.  I 


176  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

have  borne  it  before,  but  it  was  more  vividly  done, 
more  pretentiously,  perhaps  more  artistically, 
with  both  the  pulpit  and  the  press,  the  power  of 
intelligence  and  the  power  of  sentiment  reaching 
down  to  drag  this  trembling  wretch  from  his 
pitiful  obscurity  and  hold  him  up — up  in  the 
light  of  day,  so  that  all  men — even  those  with 
whom  he  worked,  the  boys  who  waited  at  table, 
the  Chinaman  who  cooked  in  the  kitchen- 
might  see  him  pictured  with  the  brush  and  pen  as 
he  was — as  he  is. 

"And  that  he  might  see  himself!  .  .  .  But, 
do  you  know,  there  is  one  thing,  that  a  man,  fallen 
like  me,  however  great  a  wretch  he  may  be,  how 
ever  hardened  he  may  appear,  cannot  bear — and 
that  is  to  see  himself  as  he  looks  to  others,  without 
a  single,  redeeming  grace,  without  a  shred  of 
remorse  or  repentance,  without  despair  as  without 
hope. 

''To  shut  that  damning  sight  out  of  my  eyes, 
to  hide  from  it,  to  drown  my  consciousness  of  it, 
I  drank.  .  .  .  And  when  I  drink  I — I  steal!" 

Jessie  Incell's  lids  had  fallen.  She  saw  the 
cracks  in  the  stone  pavement  at  her  feet,  though 
unaware  of  it,  so  distinctly  that  when  she  got  out 
into  the  sunshine  the  blue  sky  was  printed  like  it. 
A  shiver  of  disgust,  of  indignation,  of  pity  passed 
over  her.  It  was  long  before  she  looked  up;  when 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  177 

she  did  she  saw  that  his  chin  had  fallen  on  his 
breast  and  that  he  had  forgotten  her. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said  rising.  "Mr.  Overman 
will  surely  be  back  to-morrow.  He  will  come  out 
to  see  you  the  moment  he  arrives,  I  know  he  will." 

"Thank  you."  He  rose  with  a  courtesy  at 
which  her  womanhood  revolted  as  at  something 
grotesquely  out  of  place.  "What  is  there  in  that 
man  that  makes  him — Christlike  ?  There  is  not 
a  clergyman  in  town  who  would  do  anything  for 
me  any  more — except  in  the  way  I  have  told 
you."  His  lips  writhed.  "But  this  young  man — 
a  stranger — I  wear  his  coat.  And  my  soul  wears 
his  confidence,  the  knowledge  of  his  interest,  his 
sympathy,  as  an  exquisite  comfort  that  is  like  re 
ligion.  You  are  his  friend  ?"  He  looked  at  her  as 
though  he  had  just  come  to  consider  her  as  a  per 
sonality.  "Tell  me  then — shall  I  be  too  heavy 
a  load  for  his  faith  to  carry  ?  The  hope  I  should 
relinquish  is  too  slight,  too  unworthy  a  thing  to  be 
weighed  in  the  balance  against  a  moment's  dis 
couragement  for  him,  the  smallest  questioning  of 
the  justification  of  optimism,  the  most  fleeting 
consciousness  of  defeat.  Frankly — dare  I  ac 
cept  what  he  offers?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  refuse  it.  He — Mr. 
Overman  is  not  like — anybody  else."  Her  voice 
faltered  and  she  blushed  at  praising  him.  "His 


i78  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

charity  is  independent  of  his  hope  or  his  belief, 
you  know.  Failure  itself  could  not  alter  it,  I  think. 
But,  you  remember,  he  says  you  owe  it  to  him  not 
to  despair." 

He  turned  back  on  his  way  to  his  cell  and  she 
hurried  as  if  for  relief  from  a  nightmare  to  the  door. 

As  she  passed  the  desk  the  sergeant  touched 
his  cap  in  admiration,  and  a  reporter  from  a  rival 
paper  stepped  forward. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Miss  Incell,  that  you've 
actually  got  MacMillan  to  talk  ?"  he  asked  with 
good-natured  envy.  "Why,  every  paper  in 
town— 

"It's  only  one  more  little  scoop,"  she  said 
smiling  tormentingly;  she  could  not  resist  it. 

"Just  the  same  the  Inquirer  office  thinks  it 
the  biggest  thing  yet,"  the  sergeant  said  leaning 
over  the  desk. 

"How  do  you  know?"  demanded  Miss  Incell. 

"Why  Morgan,  the  new  city  editor  telephoned 
out  ten  minutes  ago  promising  me  anything  from 
the  chief's  office  to  a  brindle  pup  if  I'd  get  a  man 
into  MacMillan's  cell.  'Can't  be  done,'  I  phoned 
back.  'He  won't  see  a  soul  except  the  woman 
reporter  that's  talking  to  him  now.'  '  The  woman 
reporter,'  he  yelled  cursing  like  a  pirate,  'what 
woman  reporter — what  paper?'  *I  forget  her 
name',  says  I  softly.  'Blank  it,  man,  remember!' 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  179 

he  yells.  'Seems  to  me  it  was  Julie — no  Jessie. 
Could  it  have  been  Jessie —  '  I  whispers.  'In 
cell!'  he  roars  fit  to  break  the  receiver  and  my 
ear  drum  with  it.  'Tell  her  she  can  have  the 
whole  paper,'  he  chortled.  'Tell  her  to  come 
straight  to  my  room  the  minute  she  gets  through. 
Tell  her—  And  there  I  rung  him  off.  The 

chief  don't  allow  us  to  deliver  tender  messages 
like  that — it's  against  the  rules." 

Miss  Incell  smiled  and  thanked  him  and  looked 
thoughtful;  but  she  got  past  McNally,  who  warned 
her  to  "mind  'tis  easier  to  get  in  jail  than  out"  and 
caught  a  car  down  town. 

The  next  morning  her  interview  with  the  Rev 
erend  Grant  MacMillan  with  its  flaring  top  line, 
"What  Charity  Saints  in  the  Ministry  have  for 
Sinners,"  was  spread  over  half  the  first  page  of 
the  Inquirer.  The  information  that  a  strike  of 
teamsters  had  been  decided  upon  held  the  other 
half. 

In  the  local  room  Morgan  was  receiving  con 
gratulations  from  the  office  assembled  and  was 
affably  assuring  his  friends  that  it  was  all  due  to 
sheer  luck,  but  that  "the  Boss,  as  well  as  God 
himself,  does  love  a  lucky  city  editor."  Miss 
Incell  was  resting  as  rest  the  work-weary,  who 
fear  to  wake  and  face  a  conscience ;  she  had  remem 
bered  just  before  she  fell  asleep  that  she  had  an 


i8o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

engagement  to  be  one  of  a  theatre  party  the  follow 
ing  evening  and  she  was  glad  of  it.  Overman 
was  on  the  train  bound  back  to  the  city  and  was 
just  opening  the  Inquirer — the  last  the  train  boy 
had  for  sale. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  DESPERATE  flirtation  was  in  progress 
between  Doctor  Baumfelder  and  Mrs. 
Eveson,  the  newspaper  artist,  during  which  Miss 
Incell  and  the  young  violinist,  Baumfelder's 
protege,  played  the  part  of  amused  spectators, 
dividing  their  time  between  the  light  opera  on 
the  stage  and  the  operatic  love  affair  in  the  box. 

The  little  artist,  who  naively  reproduced  her 
own  pretty  face  modified  into  various  types  of 
beauty  in  every  woman's  picture  which  she  drew 
for  the  Inquirer,  was  a  shallow,  amiable,  vain, 
light-hearted  coquette.  She  had  "lost  her  hus 
band  in  the  shuffle"  as  she  was  wont  to  express  it 
when,  with  her  faculty  for  making  all  pictured 
women  attractive,  she  invaded  Bohemia.  She 
spoke  of  him  lightly  as  "  the  very  late  Mr.  Eveson, " 
though  divorce  not  death  separated  them.  She 
was  as  consistently  conscienceless  in  her  work  as 
in  her  personal  relations,  and  looked  at  life  as 
merely  another  phase  of  the  farce  newspaper  pro 
prietors  play,  with  a  tricky,  sensational  insincerity 
and  plenty  of  false  sentiment  to  sweeten  the  cyni 
cal  pill. 

"She's  light  champagne — very,  very  light  and 
dry,  your  friend,"  said  Baumfelder  in  a  pause, 
leaning  forward  audaciously  to  pass  on  his  impres- 

181 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

sion  to  Miss  Incell.  "What  atonement  can  Fate 
provide  for  making  a  woman  so  pretty  and  such 
an  imbecile!  'Oh,  full  many  a  bottle  of  this  for 
bidden  wine  etc.,  etc.*  ...  If  she  only  had 
your  wit,  Miss  Incell!" 

"So  good  of  you,  Doctor!"  Miss  Incell 
sneered.  "But  you  insisted  upon  meeting  her." 

"Tut — you're  too  clever  not  to  know  when  a 
man's  sincere.  No,  as  it  is,  the  wine's  too  sweet 
—it  cloys." 

"And  yet  it's  champagne?"  She  lifted  her 
eyebrows  mockingly. 

"And  yet  it's  champagne,"  he  murmurred 
whimsically  self-critical. 

"Are  you  getting  tired  of  the  show?"  Mrs. 
Eveson  bent  forward,  having  caught  the  last  word. 
"Shall  we  go  to  supper?" 

"Oh,  you're  not  going!"  All  the  musician  in 
young  Wissner  rebelled.  "Why,  Baumfelder, 
you  haven't  heard  that  intermezzo  we  came 
specially  to  hear." 

"Suppose,  Mrs.  Eveson,  you  and  the  doctor 
go  to  the  cafe,"  Miss  Incell  suggested,  "and  Mr. 
Wissner  and  I  will  join  you  after  the  intermezzo. 
It's  his  own  intermezzo  and  surely  a  man  ought  to 
know  whether  his  own  work  is  worth  listening  to 
or  not." 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  Mrs.  Eveson 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  183 

fixed  her  laughing,  pretty  eyes  upon  the  young 
violinist.  "Of  course  we'll  stay." 

And  while  Wissner  hastened  to  explain  to  her 
how  this  first  composition  of  his  came  to  be  inter 
polated  in  the  opera,  Miss  Incell  turned  to  Baum- 
felder. 

"Don't  you  ever  expect  me,"  she  said  under 
her  breath,  "to  throw  away  opportunities  upon 
an  ungrateful  man  again.  Why  didn't  you  go  ?" 

"Because  I  love  music — as  well  as  champagne. 
And  Wissner  here  can  put  into  melody  such 
emotion  as — as  a  woman  like  you  could  feel;  if 
she  would  permit  herself." 

"You  think  compliments  in  couplets,  Doctor?" 

"Not  when  I  think  of  you.  When  I  think  of 

you Ah,  listen!  There  begins  the  intermezzo: 

that  is  how  I  think  of  you." 

As  they  walked  away  from  the  theatre  Baum- 
felder  was  expatiating  upon  the  two  themes  dearest 
to  him — music  and  women — and  the  relation  they 
bore  to  each  other  in  his  thoughts.  His  powerful, 
but  well-proportioned  figure  in  its  somewhat 
striking  fur-lined  coat,  and  the  sonorous  melody 
of  his  deep  bass  made  people  pause  upon  the 
street  to  look  after  him.  Among  others,  they  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  Overman,  just  swinging 
off  a  cable  car  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  his 
eye  ran  on  from  Baumfelder  to  Mrs.  Eveson's 


1 84  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

winsome  blondness  and  Jessie  IncelPs  alert  face 
beyond. 

She  caught  his  eye  almost  at  the  instant  it 
lighted  upon  her  and  stopped — though  some 
where  in  the  back  of  her  consciousness  fear 
clutched  her — and  held  out  her  hand  with  a  wel 
coming  gesture  whose  grace  and  fulness  struck 
the  esthetic  Baumfelder  as  something  beautiful. 

"We  were  on  our  way  up  to  the  flat,  Mr.  Over 
man,"  she  said.  "You'll  come?  .  .  .  I'm — 
I'm  glad,"  she  added  with  a  breath  of  relief  at  his 
assent.  "We've  been  listening  to  Mr.  Wissner's 
intermezzo.  And  after  that,"  she  rattled  on  gaily 
now,  "Doctor  Baumfelder  says  nothing  but  a 
welsh  rarebit  and  beer  will  suffice." 

"You've  never  tasted  a  rarebit  of  mine,  Over 
man  ?"  said  Baumfelder  moving  with  Mrs.  Eveson 
to  his  side.  "Well,  it's  my  one  vanity.  No  one 
in  the  profession — or  out  of  it — can  make  rarebit 
as  I  do." 

"I'm  such  a  primitive  sort  of  savage,  Doctor," 
Overman  laughed,  "it's  a  pity  to  waste  specialized 
culinary  talent  on  me." 

"We'll  see.  Tell  me,"-— Baumfelder  placed  a 
protecting  palm  over  Mrs.  Eveson's  gloved  hand 
as  it  lay  on  his  arm;  he  always  felt  tenderly  apol 
ogetic  when  he  mentioned  one  woman  admiringly 

O  °   * 

in  another's  presence.     "What  has  become  of  that 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  185 

wonderful  symphony  of  peace  in  woman's  shape 
I  saw  up  in  the  woods  when  I  met  you." 

''He  means  Hilma,"  Miss  Incell  cried  looking 
back  at  them.  The  after  effect  of  hard  work  with 
her  was  a  pleasurable  sense  of  relaxation;  her 
light-heartedness  of  the  evening  had  developed 
into  effervescent  gayety  since  Overman  had  joined 
them.  "Why,  she's  still  up  there,  Doctor.  I 
just  sent  off  a  big  box  of — of  things  to  Hilma  to 
day.  If  I  had  only  known  you  remembered  her, 
you  might  have  sent  something  pretty  too." 

She  laughed  as  though  at  a  joke  she  was  sharing 
with  nobody. 

"Remember  her,"  repeated  Baumfelder. 
"Does  anybody  with  an  eye  or  an  ear  forget  a 
woman  or  a'strain  of  music  ?  I  was  saying  to  Miss 
Incell,"  he  continued  turning  again  to  Overman, 
whom  he  seemed  desirous  of  studying,  "that 
Wissner's  music  almost  expresses  her;  at  least  its 
effect  is  that  combination  of  wit,  of  malice,  of 
warm-heartedness,  that  pretended,  mocking  im- 
perviousness  to  sentiment — it  is  pretended,  is  it 
not  ?"  He  put  the  question  suddenly. 

"Altogether,"  responded  Overman  so  promptly 
that  the  inquisitive  Doctor  was  disappointed. 
"Witness  the  bond  between  her  and  Hilma." 

"Hilma — ah,  that  woman!"  sighed  the  Doctor 
sentimentally.  "If  she  were  my  friend's  wife, 


1 86  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

instead    of    your    friend's,     I'd    steal    her    from 
him." 

"Hilma!"  exclaimed  Overman.  "Why,  if  I 
had  a  sister  she  couldn't  be  more  to  me  than 
Hilma." 

"Well,  be  glad  that  you  haven't  a  sister  like  her," 
said  Baumfelder  gravely.  "Would  you  give  up 
half  of  your  fingers  because  you  have  ten  of  them  ? 
Never  limit  possibilities;  it's  flying  in  the  face  of 
Providence.  Thank  God,  I  haven't  sisters. 
No,  that  woman — no  one  but  a  Schubert  could 
express  the  soul  of  such  a  creature,  the  warm, 
deep,  peaceful  current  of  die  Weiber  Seele  upon 
which  a  man  might  rest  his  boat  free  of  all  care  of 
treacherous  shoals,  of  restless " 

"He  met  her  just  once,  Mrs.  Eveson,"  explain 
ed  Miss  Incell  ironically. 

"The  doctor  is  so  susceptible,"  said  Mrs. 
Eveson.  "Who  is  she — an  actress?" 

"A  born  nurse.  A  healer  of  bodies  as  well  as 
souls,"  sighed  the  Doctor. 

Mrs.  Eveson  pursed  her  pink  little  mouth. 

"I  am  trying  to  find  the  music  that  symbolizes 
you,  Mrs.  Eveson, "  Baumfelder  said  irrelevantly ; 
it  seemed  quite  natural  to  him  that  she  should 
weary  of  this  discussion  of  another  woman. 

Though  there  was  a  faintly  ironical  inflection  in 
his  voice,  unseizable  by  Mrs.  Eveson's  ear,  he  bent 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  187 

over  her  with  gallantry  helping  her  to  remove  her 
wraps.  They  had  arrived  at  the  little  apartment 
now  and  Miss  Inceli  was  directing  the  lisping 
Lisbeth  as  to  chafing  dishes  and  beer  bottles. 
Overman  was  listening  to  young  Wissner,  who  had 
taken  his  violin  from  its  case,  and  was  playing 
softly  the  tarantelle  of  his  loved  intermezzo,  his 
boyish  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  There  was 
something  very  attractive  to  Overman  in  this  talent 
ed  boy,  whom  he  knew  well;  in  his  ardor,  his  sim 
plicity,  his  utter  ignorance  of  the  deeper  meaning  of 
the  world  where  others  dwelt  and  his  esoteric  know 
ledge  of  the  world  of  art  he  himself  lived  in. 

"If  I  could  play  like  that,"  Anthony  said  when 
he  finished,  "I'd  take  my  violin  down  to  a  room  I 
know  on  Tehama  street  where  a  crippled  girl  works 
from  six  in  the  morning  till  eight  at  night.  I'd 
play  for  her." 

"If  I  could  play  like  that,"  parodied  Miss  Inceli 
saucily,  as  she  laid  the  cloth,  "I'd  take  my  violin 
to  the  best  market.  I'd  sell  my  work  to  the  high 
est  bidder  and,  with  some  very  small  portion  of 
what  I  made,  I'd  lift  the  crippled  girl  out  of  necess 
ity  to  work — forever. " 

"And  if  I  could  play  like  that,"  put  in  Baum- 
felder,  "I'd  take  my  violin  into  a  boat  with  me  at 
sunset  and  I'd  play  only  to  the  lady  of  my  love 
who " 


1 88  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"A  requisition  for  a  score  of  boats,  as  many 
violins  and  ditto  in  sunsets  for  Doctor  Baum- 
felder!"  called  Miss  Incell  in  so  authoritative  a 
tone  that  Lisbeth  came  hurrying  in  questioningly 
from  the  next  room,  only  to  find  the  Doctor  threat 
ening  her  mistress  with  a  wooden  spoon  with  which 
he  was  softening  some  cheese. 

"Well,  if  I  could  play  like  that,"  Mrs.  Eveson 
said  with  a  laugh,  "I'd  certainly  not  waste  my 
music  on  an  ignorant  factory  girl,  crippled  or 
whole." 

"But  music  is  an  emotion,  not  a  faculty,  "  re 
monstrated  Overman.  "I  am  as  ignorant  of 
everything  artistic  as  the  girl  down  on  Tehama 
street,  but  I  can  feel  a  thing  like  that." 

"Your  suggestion  is  not  very  practical,  Over 
man.  Miss  Incell  is  right."  Baumfelder  looked 
up  from  the  chafing  dish  over  which  he  had  been 
bending  in  seemingly  scientific  absorption.  "To 
appreciate  ait  one  must  be  at  peace.  To  your 
crippled  girl — a  suffering  creature  in  body,  in 
mind — the  most  beautiful  sound  or  sight  on  earth 
does  not  mean  as  much  as  a  deep  sleep,  a  moment 
of  comfortable  relaxing  of  her  twisted  muscles. 
Music — poetry — painting — they  are  the  joys  of  the 
strong  in  spirit  and  in  body.  Only  Nature's  self 
can  move  the  sick  as  art  affects  the  well." 

"I  can't  agree  with  you,  but  I  hadn't  thought 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  189 

it  out,"  said  Overman  whose  taste  for  argument 
was  limited  to  the  things  that  interested  him  most. 
"It  was  only  an  impulse,  the  instinct — which 
must  be  rright — to  give  the  most  precious  thing 
one  has." 

Baumfelder  was  bending  over  Mrs.  Eveson, 
his  eyes,  his  lips,  his  pose  offering  flattery.  But  a 
hint  of  something  more  than  a  mere  fancy  in 
Overman's  words  made  him  look  up  and  glance 
quickly  from  him  to  Jessie  IncelPs  face. 

She  caught  his  eye  and  held  it  defiantly. 

"The  most  precious  thing  one  has,  Mr.  Over 
man,  "  Baumfelder  said  seriously  "  is  altogether  too 
precious  to— 

But  the  door  opened  just  then  and  Lisbeth 
showed  Morgan  in. 

"My,  it  must  be  late  if  you  can  get  away  from 
the  office,"  cried  Mrs.  Eveson,  nestling  pleasurably 
down  in  her  chair;  she  was  still  new  enough  to  life 
to  feel  her  spirits  rise  as  the  hours  lenghtened. 
"Dean,  what  time  is  it?" 

"Time  to  get  a  taste  of  Baumfelder's  rarebit, 
that's  all  I  know.  Halloo,  Overman,  I  bet  you  don't 
know  you  got  a  raise  for  that  strike  scoop  and  for 
putting  Miss  Incell  on  to  the  MacMillan  story." 

"Then  that  wasn't  your  own  scoop?"  Mrs. 
Eveson  turned  to  Miss  Incell,  who  had  stood  for  a 
moment  as  though  waiting. 


igo  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"No,"  said  Morgan.  "Overman  really  got  that 
for  us.  Jessie  confessed  the  moment  she  met  my 
stern  city-editorial  eye.  But  it's  all  in  the  family." 

Baumfelder  looked  again  from  Overman  to 
Miss  Incell.  But  Jessie  had  gone  to  get  a  plate 
and  a  glass  for  Morgan,  and  Overman  was  laugh 
ing  with  young  Wissner  over  a  story  of  a  student's 
prank  in  Munich,  of  which  he  had  been  the  hero. 
There  was  something  very  boyish  about  Overman's 
laugh,  Baumfelder  said  to  himself.  He  never  re 
membered  to  have  heard  it  before.  And  there  was 
a  pleasing  humility  and  humanity  to-night  in  the 
manner  of  this  dogmatic  young  fellow,  the  older 
man  thought;  something  that  atoned  for  his 
having  set  himself  up  to  be  so  much  more  altruistic 
than  other  people. 

"You  make  me  feel  like  a  limited  creature," 
Overman  was  saying  to  the  musician.  "Here 
you  are,  a  boy,  and  you  have  seen  the  world  and 
laughed  at  it  and  with  it.  To  myself  I  seem  like 
an  animal  at  the  end  of  a  tether.  A  man's  only 
half  a  man  who  hasn't  stood  a  stranger  at  the  walls 
of  a  city's  life,  and  conquered  it." 

"That's  the  most  human  thing  I've  ever  heard 
you  say,  Overman."  Baumfelder  lifted  his  glass, 
pledging  him,  and  then  drank  his  beer  with  that 
stately  ceremony  which  makes  a  gracious  rite  of 
appetite. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  191 

The  surgeon  was  not  the  only  one  who  warmed 
to  Overman  that  night.  Morgan  said,  in  an  aside 
to  Miss  Incell,  that  newspaper  life  was  making  a 
livable,  human  being  out  of  her  crank  protege. 
Wissner  was  frankly  drawn  to  him  and  manifested 
the  pleasurable  sense  of  nearing  friendship  by  the 
unconscious  use  of  a  special  tone  in  his  boyish 
voice,  when  he  spoke  to  Anthony.  To  Jessie  herself, 
subconsciously  convicted  of  guilt  in  having  fallen 
from  an  ideal,  her  lover's  pleasure  in  his  surround 
ings  meant  half-incredulous  relief  from  apprehen 
sion,  half-unreasoning  disappointment  in  him. 

Anthony  and  the  young  German  drifted  into 
a  socialistic  argument  after  a  time,  but  it  was  an 
optimistic,  wholly  ideal  socialism  they  discussed; 
a  theory  far  removed  from  the  danger  of  being  put 
into  practice  that  this  young  German  artist  pro 
posed;  and  the  new  mood  that  seemed  to  possess 
Overman  this  evening,  forbade  the  interjection  of 
anything  like  strenuous  realities.  Even  Mrs. 
Eveson  lost  her  distrust  of  him.  She  was  wont  to 
look  at  him,  since  he  had  joined  the  paper's  staff, 
as  at  some  desperate  dynamiting  brigand,  deter 
mined  to  make  rich  people  uncomfortable  physi 
cally  and  poor  people  like  herself  (poverty  more 
poignant  than  her  own  lack  of  furs  and  jewels  she 
could  not  conceive)  uncomfortable  mentally — if 
that  were  possible. 


i92  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

It  was  after  they  had  all  sat  chatting  till  late  in 
the  night,  with  that  comfortable  ignoring  of  time 
that  Bohemia  fosters,  and  had  finally  departed  in 
a  body,  that  Miss  Incell  sent  the  sleepy  Lisbeth  to 
recall  Overman  just  as  the  others  had  begun  to 
run  down  the  stairs. 

"You  have  been  so  nice  to-night."  She  held 
out  her  hands  to  him.  "So  possible — so — so 
easy  —  so  livable,  so  lovable,  Anthony.  I 
couldn't  let  you  go — though  you  must  stay  just 
a  minute." 

He  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  to  him  and, 
holding  her  little  head  to  his  breast,  he  stood 
looking  out  with  her  upon  the  be-diamonded 
bay. 

"Life  is  so  pleasant,"  she  murmurred  softly  as 
though  musing  aloud.  "There  is  so  much  in  it. 
There  are  so  many  things  to  interest  one  and  to 
charm.  Duty  seems  so  simple  a  thing  to  me — now. 
Oh,  dear,  my  life  so  contents  me.  Fortune  seems  to 
have  placed  me  just  where  I  am  best  fitted  to  live. 
My  little  work,  my  little  play,  my  playmates- 
Anthony,  I  am  happy.  Go  now — good-night." 

She  slipped  away  from  him.  But  he  bent  down 
and,  with  a  passion  that  made  her  tremble,  he 
took  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  lips  again  and 
again  with  a  thirsty,  insatiate  strength  of  desire 
that  left  her  weak  and  shattered. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  193 

She  fell  upon  her  knees  at  the  open  window  as 
the  door  closed  behind  him,  bowing  her  throbbing 
head  upon  the  casement  and  throwing  her  arms 
out  to  the  night. 

"Oh,  world,"  she  cried,  "I  am  so  happy!" 


CHAPTER   XIV 

OEE,  Sweetheart,  though  it  is  morning,  it 
doesn't  seem  an  hour  since  I  left  you," 
Overman  wrote.  "  I  still  feel  on  my  mouth 
the  sweet  fire  of  your  lips.  From  the  caress 
which  my  arms  still  fall  into  of  themselves,  a 
sculptor  could  mold  the  little,  lovely  figure  they 
seem  yet  to  hold.  The  words  that  don't  say  them 
selves  readily  for  me  when  I  am  with  you  are 
leaping  from  my  very  heart — my  love — my  love. 

"But  the  end  has  come.  I  knew  it  last  night.  I 
have  spent  the  night  trying  not  to  know  it.  Listen. 
I  am  sure  you  will  understand  me,  however  mad 
and  cranky  I  may  appear  to  anyone  else. 

"But  I  cannot  fit  myself  into  your  world,  dear, 
warm  little  heart.  I  don't  belong  there.  That 
life,  that  so  contents  you,  I  can  play  at  living  for  an 
evening  so  that  our  last  memory  of  each  other,  as 
we  hoped  to  be  to  each  other,  might  be  good 
to  look  back  upon.  But  it  is  only  playing. 
And  the  Anthony  whom  you  found  'possible — 
easy — livable — lovable ' — that  is  not  I;  it  is  only 
the  pretense  of  a  man  who  loves,  trying  to  be  for 
an  hour  or  two,  what  will  please  you.  In  other 
words,  it  is  only  a  temporary  lover  made  by  your 
self,  with  all  the  real  motive  of  his  life  buried  be 
neath  a  selfish  happiness,  a  frivolous  greed  for 

194 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  195 

ease  of  mind  and  body — such  a  man  as  you  would 
not  long  love,  as  you  could  not  respect. 

"I  am  the  one  to  blame,  beloved.  The  com 
monplace  attraction  of  commonplace  women,  the 
eye-temptation  that  beauty  is — I  can  withstand 
these.  But  I  am  so  fashioned  that  I  cannot  fight 
against  you — you — all  that  you  are;  all  that  you 
mean  to  a  man. 

"But  it  was  shamelessly,  selfishly  cruel  of  me  to 
let  you  tangle  your  gay  little  life  with  mine.  At 
the  best  my  future  is  an  interrogation.  I  am  not 
a  success  in  the  profession  you  have  loaned  me. 
You  know  I'm  not,  you  only  hope  I  will  be.  And 
you  know  that  this  absurd,  little,  temporary  suc 
cess,  which  will  pass  in  a  moment,  is  built  on 
chance — and  an  unworthiness. 

"Dear,  I  never  could  play  the  judge  with  you. 
You  could  not  have  betrayed  MacMillan's  con 
fidence  and  set  him  up  again  in  the  pillory,  if  you 
had  looked  at  the  matter  as  it  appears  to  me — as 
it  must  appear  to  him.  But  a  profession  in  which 
such  a  betrayal  would  not  only  be  sanctioned  but 
applauded  as  a  rarely  skilful  piece  of  journalistic 
work — Oh,  Jessie,  you  know  I  am  not  a  Pharisee 
— there  can  be  no  success  for  me  in  such  a  pro 
fession,  even  if  I  were  to  aim  at  it  with  all  my  soul. 

"So  I  am  leaving  the  paper — not  immediately, 
but  before  long.  I — we  owe  it  to  MacMillan  to 


196  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

at  least  let  his  body  benefit  by  the  publicity  that 
must  have  seared  his  soul  and  perhaps  wrecked 
his  confidence  forever  in  humanity's  charity.  I 
shall  send  him  up  to  Hilma,  and  Donaghey  will 
find  work  for  him  when  he  is  fit  for  it;  and  this 
expense,  with  the  amount  of  his  debt  which  I  have 
promised  to  pay,  will  keep  me  working  here  a 
little  longer. 

"After  that — Darling,  I  don't  know.  Isn't 
this  confession  of  incapacity  enough  to  absolve 
you  from  your  promise  to  me  and  to  yourself? 
Would  you  let  your  daughter  stake  her  future  on  a 
man  who  had  only  this  to  say  ?  Would  you  wel 
come  a  daughter-in-law  if  your  son  were  such  a 
man  ? 

"Your  life  is  too  full,  Jessie,  your  nature  is  too 
sunny,  you  deserve  too  well  from  the  world,  you 
clever,  brave  little  working  woman,  for  this  or  any 
other  outside  influence  to  make  you  lastingly 
unhappy.  It  has  not  hurt  us  irrevocably  to  be 
together  a  while  and  to  part.  I  have  not  spoiled 
your  life — as  I  should  have  done  if  we  had  lived 
our  fairy  tale  instead  of  getting  a  bare  glimpse  of  it. 
I  have  only  troubled  it  for  a  time.  Forgive  me. 
You  are  and  always  will  be  to  me  a  revelation  of 
such  soul  companionship,  such  cheer  and  charm 
as  I  had  no  idea  that  life  could  hold. 

"The  longer  I  write  the  more  unwilling  I  am 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  197 

to  end  this — and  all  that  of  which  this  is  the  end. 
I  said  good-bye  to  you  in  my  heart  last  night 
when  I  had  you  in  my  arms.  It  seems  to  me  I'd 
give  my  life  to  have  you  close  to  me  once  more. 
But  I  should  never  have  the  courage  to  leave  you 
again — and  I  am  ashamed  to  stay. 
(  "To  men  who  part  from  the  women  they  love, 
must  come  the  agonizing  apprehension  of  the 
beloved  one's  helplessness  in  time  of  ^stress  or 
suffering,  the  craving  to  watch  over  her-f-but,  you 
see,  I  am  denied  that  tender  pain.  You  are 
stronger  without  me.  You  \vi\l  be  happier. 

"My  love — my  little  love — good  bye.  God 
bless  you,  Jessie. — A.  O." 

Overman  sat  looking  at  the  last  words  he  had 
written.  His  face  was  white  to  the  lips.  And  the 
red-haired  office-boy  stood  patiently  looking  at 
him.  But  Overman  had  forgotten  that  he  had 
rung.  He  looked  up  with  a  start  when  the  little 
fellow  coughed  deprecatingly,  and  folded  the 
letter  and  put  it  in  an  envelope.  But  at  the  last 
he  had  a  foolish  notion  that  the  thing  he  held  in  his 
hand  was  a  thing  that  had  lived  and  was  dead,  and 
because  he  wanted  to  be  alone  with  it  for  the  last 
moment  before  he  put  it  away  forever,  he  sent  the 
boy  from  the  room,  telling  him  that  he  would  mail 
the  letter  himself. 

He  left  the  office  and  slipped  the  letter  into  a 


198  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

box;  then  he  took  an  uptown  car.  He  was  de 
termined  to  fill  the  hours  that  came  before  time  to 
report  at  the  office  with  a  multitude  of  small  de 
tails  requiring  his  closest  attention.  There  was 
but  one  thing  he  dared  not  do — to  think.  It  was 
still  early  when  he  saw  the  Reverend  Grant  Mac- 
Millan,  presenting  at  the  door  of  his  cell  a  face 
almost  as  haggard  and  hopeless  as  the  minister's 
own.  MacMillan  had  attempted  suicide  in  the 
night.  He  was  still  weak,  but  the  re-awakening 
of  his  hope  in  one  man,  when  Anthony  unfolded 
his  plans  for  him,  was  like  a  new  birth  to  him. 
Overman  effected  his  release;  went  with  him  to  the 
dirty,  busy  little  restaurant  where  he  had  worked, 
paid  the  sum  MacMillan  had  stolen;  bought  him 
clothes  and  a  railroad  ticket,  sent  a  telegram  to 
Donaghey  and  put  his  charge  on  the  train.  Then 
he  hurried  to  the  office. 

Morgan  gave  him  his  detail  and  Overman  made 
a  note  of  it. 

"But  I'm  leaving  the  paper,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he 
said,  "at  the  end  of  the  week." 

"What's  up?"  Morgan's  young  city-editorship 
scented  a  rival's  jealous  hand.  "Has  that  strike 
scoop  brought  you  an  offer  from  the  News  ?" 

"No — San  Francisco  papers  are  not  compet 
ing  for  my  services.  But,  as  you  know  even  better 
than  I,  I  am  not  fitted  for  newspaper  work." 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  199 

Morgan  rubbed  his  chin  as  he  sat  curiously  look 
ing  up  at  him. 

"The  retort  open  to  you  is  obvious,  of  course, 
but — aren't  you  more  of  a  crank,  Overman,  than 
is  altogether  necessary  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so — or  rather,  I  think  not.  At  any 
rate,  thank  you,  but  I  must  quit  after  this  week. " 

"Well — all  right.  But  if  you  should  change 
your  mind — I  suppose  cranks  are  like  ordinary 
men  in  some  things — the  staff's  elastic,  you 
know.  There'll  be  room  for  you. " 

Morgan  felicitated  himself  upon  his  generosity 
when  Overman  had  left  the  room. 

"That  was  uncommonly  nice  of  you,  Dean,  old 
man — under  the  circumstances,"  he  said  appre 
ciatively.  "God  will  put  a  little  thing  like  that 
down  on  the  lonesome  side  of  your  account.  .  .  . 
He  will.  Yes,  of  course,  but  will  Jessie  Incell  ? 
That's  a  more  important  point,  as  it's  that  elusive 
Jessie  you're  sighing  for,  you  love-sick  turtle 
dove!  How  to  let  her  know  how  nice  you  are— 
there's  the  rub  about  falling  in  love  with  a  girl  that 
isn't  a  fool;  it's  so  darned  hard  to  have  all  your  wits 
about  you  when  she's  robbed  you  of  any  sense  you 
once  possessed.  .  .  .  Overman  looked  like 
the  devil,  that  he  did.  Now,  when  one  is  a 
saint  as  well  as  a  crank,  one  can't  make  him 
self  look  like  the  devil  by  the  usual  journalistic 


200  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

process.  It  isn't  a  jag;  it's  Jessie.  They've 
quarrelled." 

His  eye  and  his  hand  sought  the  telephone. 
But  he  did  not  call  up  Miss  Incell,  nor  did  he 
speak  to  her  of  Overman's  resignation  when  he 
met  her  out  dining  with  Doctor  Baumfelder  and 
Mrs.  Eveson.  She  did  not  come  to  the  office  at 
all  that  week,  but  sent  her  copy  down  by  messenger 
and  when  the  Friday  came  on  which  her  friends 
usually  spent  the  evening  with  her,  Overman  was 
on  his  way  to  Little  Gap. 

He  had  not  written  to  Donaghey  to  expect  him. 
He  wanted,  in  the  soreness  and  loneliness  of  his 
heart,  to  glean  all  the  tenderness  that  life  yet  held 
for  him  by  coming  upon  these  two,  to  whom  he  still 
was  dear,  by  surprise.  He  arrived  at  evening  and 
walked  down  through  the  soft  dusk  of  the  late 
autumn.  The  rains  had  begun  and  the  dust  was 
packed  fresh  and  tight  on  the  familiar  broad 
roadway.  The  higher  hills  showed  a  fresh  pow 
dering  of  snow  and  the  giant  summits  lifted 
shoulders  of  purer  white.  It  might  have  been  on 
such  a.  night  as  this,  Overman  said  to  himself 
as  he  walked,  that  a  girl  had  appeared  out 
of  the  darkness  before  him  and  Donaghey 
and  Hilma;  a  girl  with  a  supple,  light  little  body 
and  an  impudent,  bright  face,  with  a  wooing, 
merry  voice  and  a  laugh  that  seemed  to  have 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  201 

all  the  mirth  in  the  world  in  it  to  flood  the  world 
with  again. 

He  looked  back  upon  himself — that  steady, 
secure,  untried  self — and  he  thought  with  a  pang 
of  pain  and  joy,  how  like  a  strong  young  faun  the 
old  Anthony  Overman  had  been — till  this  girl 
stranger  roused  something  in  him  he  had  not 
known  he  possessed.  How  straight  the  road  had 
looked  before  him;  straight  as  this  which  was 
leading  him  to  the  cottage  he  and  Donaghey  had 
almost  rebuilt.  How  simple  and  natural  and  easy 
the  life  had  looked  that  he  once  planned — a 
brotherhood  of  monks,  he  had  dreamed,  of  which 
himself  should  be  abbot,  prior  and  men.  The 
rules  of  this  brotherhood  were  to  be  one:  devo 
tion,  charity,  self-sacrifice.  And  Anthony  Over 
man  had  not  known  what  renunciation  could  be 
made  to  signify!  He  knew  now,  he  said  to  himself. 
And  he  had  been  strong  enough  to  make  the 
sacrifice;  but  it  seemed  to  him,  as  he  strode  along, 
that  he  had  given  up  all  his  strength  and  hope  and 
interest  in  life  with  it;  and  that  the  sacrifice  was 
hardly  worth  while  that  left  behind  it  such  a 
crippled,  bewildered  soul  as  this. 

The  light  that  shone  out  from  Hilma's  window, 
as  he  entered  the  forest  and  neared  the  clearing 
beyond,  was  like  something  sentient  to  him.  It 
was  a  voice  from  the  past — his  past  when  he  had 


202  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

asked  nothing  of  the  future,  when  he  was  inde 
pendent  of  fate.  It  called  him,  that  light,  and 
subtly  it  strengthened  him.  For  it  reminded 
him  how  often  he  had  travelled  this  road  in  confi 
dent  strength,  in  altruistic  hope,  in  stress  of  struggle 
with  his  soul  and  even  starvation  of  his  body,  only 
to  find  himself  master  of  himself  at  the  end,  firm 
in  his  purpose  to  devote  all  that  he  was  to  humanity 
without  regard  to  the  littleness  of  his  offer  or  the 
greatness  of  the  world's  wants. 

The  door  had  been  left  open.  From  the  road 
Overman  saw  the  warm,  yellow  light,  now 
brighter,  now  softened,  streaming  down  the  few 
steps  and  out  into  the  unfenced  yard.  The  place 
looked  unreal  to  him  all  at  once  in  the  stillness, 
now  that  he  had  reached  it.  He  had  been  weary 
ing  for  it  day  and  night  this  past  week  in  the  city, 
which  his  estrangement  from  Jessie  had  be 
witched  into  a  selfish,  hurrying  crowd  of  strangers. 
Truly,  a  spell  of  silence  seemed  to  be  upon  the 
little  cottage  alone  in  the  forest.  Anthony  was 
listening  for  Donaghey's  high-pitched  voice  and  the 
short  laugh  with  which  the  Irishman  punctuated 
his  speech;  but  a  train  went  crashing  through  the 
forest  just  then,  sending  its  wild  wail  like  a  shriek 
ing  telegram  apprising  the  mountains  of  its  coming, 
and  Overman  got  up  the  steps  and  stood  in  the 
doorway,  unhearing  and  unheard. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  203 

But  he  did  not  enter.  He  looked  in.  And 
what  he  saw  held  him  back.  A  conflict  of  emo 
tions  possessed  his  breast  and  clouded  his  mind. 
A  strange  duality  of  feeling  oppressed  him.  He 
seemed  to  himself,  while  he  stood  there  as  though 
paralyzed,  to  be  two  men,  not  one.  And  one  of 
these — that  young,  confident,  exalted,  un-human 
Anthony  was  the  accuser,  while  the  old,  the 
saddened,  the  beaten  Anthony  defended;  yet,  even 
smiled  appreciatively,  with  a  new  sense  of  the 
humorous — and  envied.  And,  after  all,  what  he 
saw  was  the  commonest  sight.  Yet  Michaelangelo 
saw  it  once  and  poured  its  passionate  humanity 
into  marble — a  history  of  the  making  of  races 
as  well  as  religions. 

In  the  heart  of  the  big  fireplace,  which  Donaghey 
had  worked  all  these  months  to  build  in  the  west 
wall,  a  great  log  lay  burning,  and  in  the  glow  of 
its  soft  warmth  that  flooded  the  room — and  had 
even  run  out  upon  the  road  to  welcome  him — 
Overman  saw  Hilma  sitting  in  the  low  rocker 
with  her  baby  at  her  breast. 

So  long  he  stood  there,  so  motionless  was  her 
attitude,  so  secure  she  seemed  and  long-possessed 
in  her  woman's  inheritance  that  he  had  almost 
come  to  believe  he  had  never  known  her  childless, 
when  suddenly  a  shower  of  sparks  flying  up  from 
the  log  made  her  lift  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  him. 


204  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Instantly  she  rose  and  made  as  though  to  fly. 
Instinct  spoke  in  the  way  her  arm  hollowed  to  hold 
and  protect  the  child.  Instinct  put  her  remaining 
hand  as  a  shield  between  it  and  Anthony's  eyes. 
But  the  interfering  precepts  of  the  religion  she  had 
professed,  and  a  consciousness  of  how  unworthy 
she  must  appear  in  the  eyes  of  the  priest  she  had 
herself  selected  flooded  with  a  burning  blush  her 
face  and  bare  white  breast. 

"Hilma,  you're  not  afraid  of  me!"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  Anthony,"  she  gasped,  a  prey  to  shame 
and  pride.  "Look  at  him — so  warm,  so  white, 
so  sweet!  Sin  it  cannot  be  him  to  bring  into  the 
world.  I  have  prayed,  Anthony,  I  have  prayed 
that  you  would  know  and  forgive  and " 

"Hush,  Hilma,  what  have  I "  he  began. 

"But  I  wish  Will  here  was.  Often  and  often 
he  has  tried  to  you  to  write,  but  always  it  was  too 
hard.  And  so  we  kept  it,  hoping  that  when  Jessie 
all  the  pretty  baby-clothes  sent,  in  some  way  she 
— you.  .  ."  Her  voice  trailed  guiltily  into 
silence. 

"Come  Hilma,  don't  be  so  agitated,"  he  said 
leading  her  back  to  her  chair.  "See — there  once 
was  a  Pharisee  named  Anthony,  who  could  cheer 
fully  deny  to  others  the  things  he  himself  did  not 
care  for.  He  cuts  a  ridiculous  figure,  that  young 
fool  Anthony,  seen  in  some  lights,  and  in  others  a 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  205 

most  contemptible  one.  The  best  thing  to  do  is 
not  to  look  at  him  in  any  light  at  all.  There — 
there,  don't  Hilma!" 

She  had  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  in  grati 
tude  and  reverence.  He  took  the  sleeping  child 
from  her  and  held  it  a  moment  in  his  arms,  look 
ing  down  upon  it  with  tender  curiosity. 

"Even" — Hilma  whispered  looking  up,  per 
fect  happiness  in  her  face  to  see  her  saint  hold  her 
child,  "even  it  seems  to  make  one  better!  Since 
its  birth  Will  (he  is  up  in  the  town  with  Mr.  Mac- 
Millan)  Will  has  not  once  his  temper  lost.  He 
says  the  child  shall  never  its  father  see  and  him 
remember  as  unworthy.  And  I — oh  Anthony 
— sanctification  it  is  a  woman  feels  when  her 
child  is  born!" 

Overman  stood  in  silence.  He  seemed  now 
clearly  at  last  to  realize  what  self-sacrifice  means. 
His  eyes  had  wandered  from  the  baby's  face;  they 
were  bitter  and  restless  and  longing,  as  though 
they  gazed  beyond  the  mountains  and  valleys 
and  waters  that  separated  him  from  Jessie  Incell 
and  saw  her,  her  head  bowed  upon  her  casement, 
her  arms  outstretched  to  the  night,  crying  desper 
ately  in  her  soul, 

"Oh  God,  I  am  so  miserable!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

/^VERMAN  lingered  on  at  Little  Gap.  He 
^•"^  had  not  intended  to  spend  more  than 
twenty-four  hours  there  before  taking  the  train 
for  the  east.  But  a  presence  dwelt  in  the  little 
place  that  held  him.  It  was  his  youth  that 
faced  him,  the  youth  of  his  spirit,  buoyant  though 
full  of  thought,  quick  with  hope  and  strength  and 
courage,  unhindered  in  action  and  blessed  with 
such  a  simple  philosophy  that  it  seemed  to  go 
straight  toward  its  mark  like  a  human  arrow  sent 
from  the  great  Bow's  soul. 

The  self  that  he  had  become  was  more  like  a 
flying  thing  tethered.  And  O,  the  tether  was 
sweet  to  him,  and  he  loved  it,  he  caressed  it,  feeling 
always  in  his  heart  that  the  youth  he  had  been 
would  have  torn  himself  loose  from  it.  And  yet 
he  would  permit  no  contempt  to  enter  into  that 
reacting  inward  gaze  which  his  old  self  returned 
for  the  new  one's  impersonal  sort  of  criticism. 
This  tethered  creature  was  limited,  compared  with 
the  old  self  he  had  known,  but  how  limited  in 
another  sense  was  the  idealist  who  had  never  taken 
part  in  that  selfish  yet  altruistic  duet,  in  which  two 
souls  melt  for  very  faith  and  love  and  charity  into 
each  other.  There  was  something  not  quite 

human,  he  admitted  now,   about  that    Idealist, 

206 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  207 

and  Anthony  in  his  pain  looked  back  pityingly 
upon  him — and  envyingly.  He  wanted  the  Renun- 
ciant's  peace,  his  poise,  his  selfless  strength  that 
permitted  him  to  look  upon  himself  as  a  mere 
machine  to  carry  out  plans,  to  fulfill  hopes  and 
promises. 

And  so  he  spent  his  days  retracing  that  Idealist's 
steps,  putting  himself  physically  in  his  place  and 
striving  for  the  old  point  of  view.  The  old  relig 
ious  fervor  that  had  upheld  him  when  he  worked 
with  all  his  might  at  primitive  tasks,  when  he 
fasted  out  on  these  hills  for  the  prescribed  forty 
days,  the  sense  of  nearness  that  he  had  had  to  the 
heart  of  things,  to  the  simple  solution  of  the  world 
riddle  he  had  once  been  so  sure  of  when  he  prayed 
and  meditated  in  the  little  prayer-houses  set  out 
in  the  solitude — he  did  not  seek  to  revive  all  this. 
He  thought  it  as  irrevocably  dead  as  the  immunity 
from  passion  which  had  accompanied  it.  But 
as  he  walked  over  the  mountains  it  was  as  with  a 
companion  by  his  side,  a  companion  like,  and  yet 
not  himself,  from  whose  serene  strength  he  bor 
rowed  hourly. 

When  he  came  back  from  his  long  tramp  one 
evening  at  the  end  of  the  week,  Donaghey  handed 
him  a  letter  had  come  for  him.  It  was  from  Mc- 
Intosh,  the  labor  union  leader. 

"I    got  your  address  from  the  Inquirer"  he 


208  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

wrote.  "I  am  glad  you  are  free,  for  I  want  to 
offer  you  an  editorial  position  on  the  new  Work- 
in  gm  an  s  Weekly  we  start  within  a  couple  of  weeks. 
There  is  no  fortune  in  it  for  you  nor  for  the  rest  of 
us,  but  there  is  a  chance  to  do  good  work  and  be 
decently  paid  for  it.  Will  you  come  ?  The 
strike  is  on  to  stay  and  we  want  our  own  paper 
and  we  want  it  now.  If  you  intend  to  come,  now's 
the  time." 

It  was  after  supper  was  over  that  they  discussed 
the  proposition.  Hilma,  who  got  her  strength 
back  very  slowly,  had  gone  to  bed.  The  baby  lay 
on  a  pillow  in  the  rocking-chair,  on  which  the 
Irishman's  hand  rested  giving  it  a  gentle  swing 
now  and  then  that  spun  a  tender  woof  for  their 
talk  to  weave  itself  upon. 

"I  can't  see  why  you  hesitate,"  Donaghey  said, 
his  eyes  following  Overman  curiously  as  he  walked 
up  and  down.  "It  ought  to  be  just  what  you'd 
like,  Anthony,  and  just  what  you  can  do  well." 

"If  it  was  anywhere  else  than  San  Fran 
cisco." 

"That's  not  like  you,"  Donaghey  said  quickly. 
"What's  the  town  got  to  do  with  it  ?  I  wish  'twas 
myself  that  had  that  bit  of  knack  you've  got  to 
write.  I'd  say  yes  mighty  quick  to  an  offer  like 
that." 

Overman  stopped  behind  the  big  rocker  to  look 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  209 

at  him;  there  was  something  in  the  Irishman's 
voice  that  struck  him  peculiarly. 

"You're  not  discontented  ?"  he  asked,  lowering 
his  voice  as  the  baby  stirred.  "It's  not  much  you 
and  Hilma  have,  but  oh  the  peace  there  is  up  here, 
Will!" 

A  queer  half-smile  flitted  over  the  Irishman's 
face.  It  was  a  determined  face  and  yet  there 
lurked  in  it  a  subtle  element  of  weakness.  He 
tugged  at  his  short  mustache  for  a  moment  before 
he  spoke. 

"Just  peace  ain't  what  a  man  like  me's  got  any 
right  to  look  for.  I've  too  good  reasons  for  dis 
content,  Anthony.  There  they  are. "  He  pointed 
at  the  baby,  whose  lids  were  fluttering  as  though 
sleep  were  hesitating  on  the  very  border  of  con 
sciousness,  and  then  to  the  next  room  to  which 
Hilma  had  withdrawn.  "Since  I  got  my  senses 
back  I've  never  been  able  to  see  rightly  what 
struck  me  when  I  threw  up  my  job  and  followed 
old  Senn  out  here.  It  was  natural  enough  in  you, 
for  it  was  right  in  your  line.  But  imagine  a 
Catholic  and  a  workingman  swallowing  that  hash 
of  religion  and  communism  and  playing  early 
Christian!  It  was  hysteria  with  me.  I'd  got  into 
the  deuce  of  a  mess  with  th's  beastly  temper  of 
mine  just  then  and  I'd  have  enlisted,  I  suppose, 
or  gone  to  the  devil  if  either  Uncle  Sam  or  his 


210  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

satanic  majesty  had  happened  to  come  a — tempting 
me  as  opportunely  as  Senn  did.  Well — I'm  not 
sorry,  for  two  reasons  again,  the  same  two.  But 
the  man  that's  got  four  hands  clinging  to  him  ain't 
the  same  man  that  came  up  to  the  mountains  to 
build  a  new  Jerusalem.  The  plain  old  world's 
good  enough  for  me — if  it  gives  me  a  chance  to 
do  for  Hilma  and  the  child.  I  don't  know  exactly 
the  after-effect  Senn's  had  on  you — I  guess  you 
had  it  worse  than  I;  but  he's  made  me  a  better 
Catholic  than  I  ever  was,  and  he's  cured  me  once 
and  for  all  of  nonsense.  It's  taken  the  conceit 
out  of  me,  Anthony.  There's  no  kick  left  in  me. 
No  more  reforming  the  world  from  yours  truly. 
I  want  nothing  to  do  with  reformers,  except  you 
—devil  take  you;  I  can't  cure  myself  of  my 
liking  for  you.  I  thought — I  hoped  we'd  fall  out, 
you  and  I,  over  this."  He  chuckled  grimly,  his 
open  hand  indicating  the  child.  "But  I  realized 
how  sorry  I'd  have  been,  if  we  had,  by  measuring 
my  relief  when  I  found  you'd  graciously  deigned 
to  overlook  it." 

They  both  laughed  softly  so  as  not  to  wake  the 
sleeping  child. 

"But  what  with  my  experience  with  Senn," 
Donaghey  went  on,  "and  what  with  my  having  a 
wife  now  and  a  child,  and  something  cross- 
grained  perhaps  that  I've  always  had  in  me — 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  211 

you'll  say  it's  narrowed  me.  Well — it  may  be. 
But  all  I  want  of  the  world  is  to  give  me  a  place  in 
it  for  me  and  Hilma  and  the  baby.  And  that's 
why  I  ought  to  quit  this  'Home  of  Peace,'  "  he 
sneered.  "And  I  would  to-day  if  that  fool  strike 
wasn't  on  down  in  the  city,  crippling  a  man's 
every  chance  to  make  a  start." 

"Why,  Will,  you're  in  sympathy  with  the 
strikers!"  Overman  exclaimed  incredulously. 

"Not  I."  Donaghey  shook  his  head  doggedly, 
biting  hard  upon  the  pipe  he  had  taken  to  smoking. 
"Those  strikers  down  yonder  are  only  doing  in  a 
body  what  I  did  when  I  joined  Senn — challenging 
circumstances,  throwing  up  a  good  job  for  a  mad 
hope;  being  swindled  by  a  sort  of  socialistic  cant 
instead  of  the  holy-holy  kind;  going  in  for  some 
thing  they  don't  really  understand,  as  I  did,  and 
bound  to  come  out  at  the  little  end  of  it  with  a  clear 
loss  behind  them  of  money  and  time.  .  .  .  not 
to  count  the  suffering  of  wives  and  children.  And, 
to  come  down  to  the  real  thing,  Hilma  isn't  well. 
She  don't  get  well.  That  fellow," — he  nodded 
toward  the  child  with  a  glance  half-proud, 
half-resentful — "just  gets  bigger  and  stronger 
every  day.  But  she  —  I  tell  you,  Anthony, 
all  the  ideas  in  the  world  are  nothing  but 
hot  air,  just  empty  breath,  when  your  wife's 
ailing  and  you  know  that  that  big  city  doc- 


212  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

tor  could  cure  her  and — and  you  can't  get  to 
him." 

Overman  looked  down  upon  him  as  he  sat,  his 
chin  in  his  hands,  his  knitted  brows  and  troubled 
eyes  bent  fixedly  on  the  rocking-chair  that  was 
still  now.  It  Vvas  a  new  Donaghey  that  had 
developed  during  the  months  of  separation; 
a  man  that  seemed  oddly  strange  and  even  an 
tagonistic  to  all  that  Overman  still  held  dear; 
but  who  was  as  near  to  him,  as  intimately 
connected  with  his  life  and  his  affections  as 
though  the  brotherly  bonds  which  once  held 
these  two — who  so  literally  and  idealistically 
had  obeyed  the  spirit  of  communism — were  still 
strong  and  unbroken. 

"I'll  take  the  thing  Mclntosh  offers,  Will,"  he 
said  after  a  pause,  "if  you'll  bring  Hilma  down 
to  the  city  after  I've  got  a  place  for  you  both, 
and  have  Baumfelder  cure  her." 

Donaghey  looked  up,  a  light  in  his  small,  heavily- 
lashed  eyes  that  made  his  twisted  little  face  almost 
lovable.  "That's  like  you,  Anthony.  But  you  see 
along  with  the  things  I've  turned  my  back  on  is 
living  off  somebody  else.  I  want  to  live  regular — I 
want  to  be  regular.  Just  so  far  as  I  went  off  the 
beaten  track,  just  that  far  have  I  to  go  over  on  the 
other  side.  I'm  a  conservative  now  I  tell  you, 
a  conservative,  a  regular  who " 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  213 

"Who'd  let  his  wife  suffer  rather  than  borrow 
from  his  friend  and  hers." 

Donaghey  had  jumped  to  his  feet  and  was 
wringing  Overman's  hand. 

"No— ^who's  an  ass  to  pretend  for  a  minute 
that  he  would.  But  it's  a  loan  this  time,  Anthony, 
if  ye  love  me.  And  I'll  get  to  work  down  there  in 
spite  of  those  blamed,  idiotic  strikers  and  I'll  pay 
you  back  every  cent — you  blessed  crank!" 

It  was  a  different  sort  of  San  Francisco  Overman 
met  and  knew  this  time.  The  town  was  aflame 
with  the  passion  of  the  old,  old  war  between 
capital  and  labor.  The  economic  machinery  of 
the  whole  state  was  clogged  and  awry,  but  in  the 
city  itself  the  struggle  was  bitterest. 

Overman  felt  himself  caught  up  in  what  seemed 
the  expression  of  a  mighty  temperament  at  war 
with  itself.  The  mass  of  life  compressed  into  a 
single  and  uniform  condition,  the  thousands  of 
workingmen  whose  desires  and  dreams  had  all 
concentrated  into  a  single  hope  came  to  appear 
to  him  as  a  single  individuality  animated  by  such 
diverse  passions,  capable  of  such  varied  emotions 
that  he  who  tried  to  realize  it  all,  its  form  and  es 
sence,  endured  in  himself  all  that  its  components 
suffered. 

He  hammered  with  his  pen  and  his  tongue — 
for  he  was  an  orator  of  a  simple,  forthright  kind — 


214  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

at  the  national  sin  of  privileging  the  predatory. 
He  pleaded  with  the  wild  passions  let  loose  that 
had  begun  to  slake  their  righteous  wrath  in  un 
righteous  retribution.  The  artist  in  him,  of  whose 
existence  he  had  been  unaware,  waked  with  the 
right  to  work  at  congenial  things  and  he  experi 
enced,  for  the  first  time,  that  keen,  queer  literary 
pleasure  in  the  right  and  fitting  use  of  words  that 
was  a  joy  apart  from  truth-telling;  for  it  was  telling 
the  truth  well.  All  he  had  read — and  the  bent 
of  his  mind  had  always  been  toward  the  solution 
of  the  problem  of  living,  however  idealistic  had 
been  his  interpretation  of  ways  and  means — had 
been  stored  and  systematized  by  that  automatic 
process,  with  which  the  single-minded  are  gifted. 
All  he  had  thought  bore  now  on  the  thing  he  had 
to  say.  The  unconventional  form  in  which  his 
inexperience  at  first  expressed  itself  betrayed  an 
awkwardness  in  handling  his  tools,  but  no  crudity 
of  thought.  For  Overman  at  this  period  of  his 
life  was  merely  living  his  inner  life  into  literature. 
There  could  not  but  be  a  response  to  sincerity 
and  strength  such  as  this  at  a  time  when,  in  the 
temporary  disarrangement  of  social  conditions, 
men's  minds  were  receptive  to  all  theories  bearing 
upon  the  reorganization  of  the  social  strata. 
Every  thinker  in  the  state — the  unbalanced  and 
irrational  as  well  as  the  conscientious  and  re- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  215 

sponsible — felt  that  force  which  put  into  words 
something,  some  part  of  his  own  creed. 

"Anthony's  got  a  natural  attraction  for  cranks 
of  all  kin'ds;  he's  a  crank  magnet,"  Donaghey 
used  to  say.  "And  the  reason  is  that  there's 
nothing  so  mad  in  the  list  of  crank's  diseases  that 
he  hasn't  had  it." 

That  he  would  make  a  reputation  with  his  pen 
had  not  occurred  to  Overman.  The  personal 
form  of  his  utterance,  which  a  sensational  press 
had  made  popular  before  his  time,  was  due  merely 
to  his  unfamiliarity  with  any  other  form  of  ex 
pression.  His  name  at  the  head  of  his  columns 
was  an  idea  of  Macintosh's;  it  came  to  mean  more 
than  the  Scotchman  had  dreamed.  But  Overman 
knew  as  little  what  to  do  with  that  reputation  when 
it  came  to  him,  as  how  or  why  it  had  come.  He 
had  a  sense  of  a  sort  of  spurious  renown  at  this 
time;  of  being  considered  in  a  light  that  was 
illegitimate,  in  a  way  that  was  somehow  unde 
served.  In  his  heart  he  was  as  out  of  key  with  the 
reformers — each  of  whom  was  a  specialist  with 
a  patent  nostrum  for  a  particular  sociological 
ailment,  but  with  not  the  least  thought  or  care  how 
these  remedies  would  affect  other  maladies  of  the 
body  politic — as  he  was  with  the  men  who  like 
himself  held  editorial  office;  those  purchasable 
pen-and-ink  preachers  whose  impassioned  ser- 


2i6  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

mons  for  or  against  ^re  for  sale  to  the  highest 
bidder.  But  these,  on  the  contrary,  regarded 
Overman  as  one  of  themselves  who  was  shrewdly 
catering  to  a  present  public  taste,  and  at  the  same 
time  making  a  name  that  would  be  of  use  in 
future  contingencies. 

But  Overman  was  merely  putting  all  his  mind, 
all  the  sinews  of  his  being  into  the  solution  of  a 
problem.  He  was  living,  for  the  time,  as  though 
existence  for  him  had  begun  and  would  end  with 
this  particular  phase  of  the  never-ending  struggle. 
He  was  honest  because  he  was  expressing  with 
simple  strength  the  convictions  of  an  almost 
primitive  mind,  acted  upon  and  acting  for  the  first 
time  through  realities,  yet  bulwarked  by  the  best 
thought  of  the  great  altruists. 

He  could  not  be  self-seeking;  he  could  not  be 
hampered  by  considerations  that  hold  and  belittle, 
for  the  reason  that  he  had  no  ambition,  not  even 
a  literary  one.  Power  did  not  tempt  him,  com 
munist  as  he  was.  He  could  not  have  borne 
wealth,  nor  have  held  it  but  for  so  long  as  it  took  to 
transfer  it  to  those  to  whom,  'now  and  in  trie  same 
proportion,  he  made  over  what  he  earned. 

Hilma's  health  was  the  one  personal  considera 
tion  the  world  held  for  him.  He  lived,  in  the 
midst  of  thought  and  action,  more  lonely  than  ha 
had  been  in  the  cottage  at  Little  Gap.  From 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  217 

Morgan,  whom  he  met  occasionally,  he  learned 
that  Jessie  Incell  had  gone  to  Alaska  with  a  party 
of  which  Mrs.  Eveson  was  one  and  Doctor  Baum- 
felder  another,  to  escape  the  windy,  foggy  summer. 
It  was  not  till  later  that  Donaghey  brought  Hilma 
and  the  child  to  the  city,  when  the  surgeon  had 
returned  to  his  practice,  leaving  the  rest  of  the 
party  still  sailing  in  an  enchanted  land  of  northern 
lights,  of  glaciers  like  sleeping  beauties  of  ice, 
mountain  ranges  of  frozen  rivers  whose  mad 
motion  seemed  to  have  been  arrested  by  a  spell, 
and  waited  only  a  magic  signal  to  release  and 
renew  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AUMFELDER  parted  the  curtains  of  his 
sumptuous  offices.  He  waved  aside  the 
black  boy  in  buttons,  who  sprang  forward 
in  surprise  at  the  surgeon's  appearance  in  the 
crowded  waiting-rooms  where  bells  summoned 
the  wealthy  afflicted  to  his  presence  and,  holding 
out  a  beautifully  white  hand  to  Hilma,  led  her  and 
Donaghey  into  an  inner  room. 

The  trained  nurse  who  officiated  there,  spotless, 
severe,  shapely  and  official  to  the  verge  of  carica 
ture,  lifted  a  supercilious  brow,  as  she  took  the 
baby  from  Donaghey's  arms,  and  her  expression- 
lessly  regular  and  experienced,  unlined  face  wore 
a  puzzled  look  as  she  noted  the  great  Baumfelder's 
deferential  and  attentive  air  while  he  listened  to 
this  simply,  dowdily-dressed  woman  and  the  odd, 
restless,  bitter  little  Irishman  who  accompanied 
her. 

"I  am  sure  I  can  help  you,  Mrs.  Donaghey," 
he  said  at  last.  "It  is  not  serious.  Yes,  of 
course,  you  shall  be  made  well  and " 

"And  what  will  it  cost,  Doctor?" 

Baumfelder  looked  amiably  at  Donaghey  wav 
ing  aside  his  question.  "We  need  not  speak  of 
that,"  he  said  graciously. 

"Oh  yes,  we  need!  Hilma  shan't  beg  and  I  can't 

2x8 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  219 

accept  chanty."  A  perverse  world  seemed  bent 
upon  ignoring  Donaghey's  craving  for  regularity. 

"What  has  become  of  all  your  communistic 
theories,  Mr.  Donaghey?"  demanded  Baumfelder 
smiling. 

"They've  gone  a-glimmering  and  I've  got 
sane." 

"Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  treating  Miss 
Incell's  friend  for  the  pleasure  it  will  be  to  see  her 
well  again." 

"No — thank  you.  We  owe  enough  to  Miss 
Incell.  She's  more  than  out  of  our  debt;  every 
stitch  the  child  wears  came  from  her.  That's 
enough." 

Baumfelder  turned  from  him  to  Hilma. 

"And  you  ?  Can't  I  prevail  upon  you  to  accept 
my  services  ?"  he  asked. 

She  met  his  eyes  with  their  revelation  of  the 
complex  being  he  was,  with  the  too  significant 
tenderness  for  women,  with  the  artistic  qualities 
and  the  self-indulgent  ones  of  his  nature,  and  the 
keen  glance  of  the  surgeon  piercing  it  all,  in  a 
childlike  spirit  of  utter  repose  and  docility. 

"As  Will  says  so  must  it  be,"  she  said  simply. 

"Very  well.  I  will  let  Mr.  Donaghey  know  the 
cost  after  my  first  visit  to  you. " 

Baumfelder  stood,  his  hand  on  the  door,  looking 
after  them  as  they  went  out  into  the  hall.  The 


220  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Irishman  had  taken  the  baby  in  his  arms,  showing 
that  same  quick  deftness  of  touch  that  had  made 
the  inside  of  Hilma's  house  in  the  mountains  so 
beautiful. 

"  'Du  list  die  Ruh  der  Friede  Mild'.  "  The 
great  surgeon  hummed  the  German  melody  be 
tween  his  white  teeth,  and  turned  back  to  his  desk. 
"And  yet  he  is  restless,  eaten  up  with  dissatis 
faction,  the  husband.  Ingrate!" 

But  Donaghey  was  no  ingrate.  Circumstances 
were  crowding  him  to  a  determination  from  which 
he  shrank,  despite  the  self-justification  he  cease 
lessly  argued.  He  had  been  unable  to  find  work 
in  the  city;  every  inlet  to  business,  to  trade  was 
blocked.  The  strike  had  congested  the  market 
and  labor  held  out  strong,  willing,  desperate  hands 
for  the  work  it  was  denied.  Fate  seemed  slowly 
to  be  cornering  Donaghey,  and  in  the  very  pursuit 
of  the  established,  the  conventional,  he  felt  him 
self  being  forced  back  step  by  step  into  the  last 
irregularity. 

"There's  no  reason  why  I,  who  believe  this 
strike  to  be  all  wrong,  should  stay  here  paralyzed 
and  a  pauper  because  of  it,"  he  groaned  to  Over 
man. 

"There's  the  reason  that  every  man  who  is  a 
man  must  suffer  personally  rather  than  endanger 
a  great  principle,"  declared  Overman. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  221 

"  I've  got  a  right  to  work  for  my  wife  and  child, " 
growled  Donaghey  doggedly. 

"No  you  haven't,  if  that  right  conflicts  with  the 
moral  rights  of  workmen  fighting  a  battle  against 
desperate  odds.  The  man  who  takes  up  the  work 
his  fellowmen  have  laid  down  upon  labor's  sacri 
ficial  altar  turns  traitor  in  time  of  war.  He  de 
serves  no  quarter." 

"I'll  ask  none,"   Donaghey  said  stubbornly. 

"But  Hilma  and  the  child  are  provided  for, 
Will." 

"By  you — not  by  me.  How  long  do  you  think 
I  can  stand  it  ?  I  tell  you,  man,  I'll  go  mad  if 
this  thing  goes  on!  Or  rather,  I  won't  go  mad, 
I'll  put  an  end  to  it." 

That  afternoon  Overman  found  work  for  Don 
aghey  in  the  printing  office  of  the  labor  organ. 
But  the  virulence  of  the  Irishman's  anti-strike 
sentiments  deepened  under  the  influence  of  such 
an  atmosphere  as  pervaded  the  place.  His  un 
controllable  temper,  slow  to  rouse  but  unheeding 
of  consequences  when  it  was  roused,  broke  bonds 
at  last  there  in  the  very  sanctuary  of  union  labor, 
in  a  violent  tirade  against  the  word  "  scab  "  which  a 
fellow  workman  had  used.  And  snarling,  "Scab! 
Scab!  It's  a  scar  on  labor's  honor,  that  word. 
By  God,  I'll  go  and  be  a  scab  myself,  before  I'll  be 
a  coward!"  he  put  on  his  coat  and  left  the  place. 


222  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Guarded  by  policemen,  furnished  on  the  de 
mand  of  the  employer's  association,  Donaghey 
drove  a  dray  the  next  day.  It  was  loaded  with 
merchandise  and  was  driven  through  the  heart  of 
town.  He  heard  the  cries  of  contempt  and  mur 
derous  hate  that  union  labor  visits  upon  the  scab. 
But  he  reached  his  home  at  night,  defiance  in  his 
heart  and  five  dollars  in  his  pocket. 

He  offered  the  money  to  Anthony.  "So  much 
off  our  debt  to  you,"  he  said*  a  challenging  note  in 
his  voice. 

Overman  looked  at  the  gold  piece  a  moment; 
then  he  put  an  arm  about  the  Irishman's  shoulders, 
very  gently  pushing  closed  the  hand  that  held  the 
money. 

"I  swear  to  you,  Will,  for  me  it  seems  to  have 
blood  on  it!"  he  said. 

Donaghey  stood  stupefied.  He  looked  from  his 
friend  to  the  coin  he  had  refused  as  though  he 
expected  to  see  the  stain  upon  it.  Then  he  put 
it  in  his  pocket  and  savagely  he  turned  upon  Over 
man. 

"It's  the  end  then  between  us,"  he  cried. 
"This  'blood-money'  is  all  the  money  your  hellish 
strike  will  let  me  earn.  If  you're  too  finicky  to 
take  it,  I  can't  help  it,  but  I  can  help  taking  any 
thing  more  from  you.  Hilma  and  I'll  leave 


to-morrow.'* 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  223 

"No,  you'd  better  let  me  leave,"  Overman  said. 
"It's  easier  for  me  to  move;  Hilma's  not  well 
enough." 

He  did  not  attempt  to  reason  with  Donaghey; 
the  Irishman  was  past  reason.  So  they  separated 
and  Hilma,  slowly  recovering  from  a  slight  oper 
ation,  lived  utterly  alone  save  for  her  child,  through 
days  of  apprehension,  cut  off  from  companionship 
by  her  timidity  and  the  novelty  and  strangeness  of 
her  new  life,  as  well  as  by  the  damning  fact  that 
she  was  wife  to  a  scab. 

When  Jessie  Incell  came  in  upon  her  the  day 
after  her  return  from  Alaska,  the  Swedish  girl  felt 
a  sudden,  swift  release  from  the  tension  that  had 
held  her  and  she  fell  to  sobbing  piteously.  All 
the  slow,  dull  agony  of  apprehension  seemed  to 
lift  from  her  at  sight  of  her  friend's  bright  face,  her 
alert,  smiling  eyes,  her  bearing  of  sturdy,  hopeful 
independence. 

Hilma's  drank  deep  of  the  welcome  presence. 
She  took  in  every  detail  of  Miss  Incell's  erect,  con 
fident  little  figure.  She  gave  to  the  jaunty  jacket 
Jessie  slipped  out  of  and  she  laid  upon  the  bed,  a 
caress  that  was  both  for  itself  and  its  wearer.  She 
put  the  saucy  little  sailor  hat  aside  with  a  glance  of 
loving  intelligence  for  it.  Then  she  took  Jessie 
by  the  hand  and  showed  her  her  baby  asleep  in  the 
next  room,  his  tumbled  fair  hair  damp  on  the  white 


224  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

forehead,  his  fine  little  animal  body  pregnant  with 
vitality;  seemingly  growing  with  its  every  breath 
and  exhaling  a  sane  exuberance  of  development, 
like  that  California  soil  under  California  skies 
knows  in  springtime. 

Donaghey's  wife  felt  then  her  account  with  Miss 
Incell  was  nearly  balanced. 

"And  Anthony  has  him  held  in  his  own  arms," 
she  said  with  soft  rapture,  laying  the  coverlet 
again  over  the  child.  "And  he  has  a  blessing 
looked  upon  him." 

Miss  Incell  did  not  seem  much  impressed. 
"Who  could  help  'a  blessing  looking'  upon  a 
husky  little  new  man  like  that  ?"  she  demanded. 

"He  has  changed — Anthony,"  said  Hilma. 

Miss  Incell's  eyes  lost  their  tenderness. 

"I  haven't  discovered  it,"  she  said  curtly  follow 
ing  Donaghey's  wife  back  into  the  living  room. 
And  then  taking  Hilma's  hand  in  hers,  she  asked 
sternly,  "Why  has  he  left  you  alone  here  in  this 
dingy  place,  tell  me.  How  dared  he!" 

"The  doctor  has  told  you? — They  quarreled, 
the  two,  and ' 

"But  he  had  no  right  to  his  anger,  the  faultless 
Anthony  Overman!  .  .  .  My  poor  Hilma!" 
she  exclaimed. 

She  was  looking  out  upon  the  dirty  little  street 
below  and  the  dingy  houses  opposite,  and  con- 


"The  two  policemen  — one  sitting  beside  hi 
and  slowly  their  fingi 


ic  other  standing  watchfully  behind,  drew  closer 
losed  upon  their  weapons." 

Ste  fage  229 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  225 

trasting  these  with  that  gold  and  green  out- 
doorness  which  closed  the  view  and  opened  the 
fancy  in  the  cottage  at  Little  Gap. 

The  Swedish  girl  looked  bewildered. 

"It  was  not  Anthony,"  she  explained  shocked. 
"It  was  Will — and  his  temper,  poor  Will!  It  is  as 
if  he  was  sick — sick  with  anger,  Will.  And  the 
more  the  world  him  hates,  the  more  he  the  world 
hates,  poor  Will!" 

"Bosh!"  said  Miss  Incell  cheerily.  "The  world 
doesn't  hate  anybody;  it  hasn't  time." 

"Oh  yes,  even  me  they  hate  for  being  his  wife. 
The  children  cry  names  after  me.  The  store 
keeper  will  nothing  send  us.  I  must  carry  all 
things  home  with  me." 

"Oh,  the  imbeciles,"  Miss  Incell  set  her  teeth. 

Hilma  was  vaguely  comforted.  "But  Anthony 
"  she  began. 

"Oh,  he's  a  crank!"  ejaculated  Miss  Incell 
impatiently.  "Think  of  his  leaving  you  to  a  life 
like  this." 

"  But  he  had  to  go  or  Will  would  us  have  taken 
away — so  angered  he  is.  But,"  Hilma's  voice 
fell,  "he  has  been  since  and  money  he  has  offered 
me,  but  that  would  not  be  right — to  Will." 

"The  ninny!"  exclaimed  Miss  Incell  quite  con 
fident  that  the  Swedish  girl  would  not  mistake  the 
application.  "Trust  Anthony  Overman  to  take 


226  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

a  wrathful,  wrong-headed  man  seriously  instead  of 
laughing  at  him.  And  he's  your  only  visitor, 
Hilma?" 

"Yes." 

"No  one  else?"  Miss  Incell  eyed  her  sharply. 

"No  one." 

"Not  even  Doctor  Baumfelder?" 

"Oh,  the  doctor?  He  is  not  a  visitor." 

"No?  But  he  comes — still — often?" 

"Yes,  though  I  fear  for  the  bill.  But  he  is  very 
kind." 

"Very." 

Miss  Incell  sniffed.  Hilma  looked  timidly  at 
her  friend;  everything  she  said  seemed  more  and 
more  to  anger  her.  Jessie  caught  the  troubled, 
questioning  look  in  those  clear,  soft  eyes  and  put  an 
arm  remorsefully  about  Hilma's  shoulders. 

"It's  nothing,  dear,"  she  said  apologetically, 
"only  Anthony  Overman  is  such  a  fool.  One 
would  think  he'd  have  some  sense  if  Donaghey 
hasn't." 

"You  do  not — like  him  more — Anthony?" 
A  horror  of  astonishment  was  revealed  in 
Hilma's  voice. 

"Like  him!"  She  was  putting  on  her  jacket 
which  Donaghey's  wife  held  for  her;  but  she  had 
controlled  her  voice  when  she  turned  and  pinned 
on  her  hat  with  a  firm  hand,  standing  before  the 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  227 

little  mirror.  "Who  could  like  a  body  of  crank- 
isms,  like  that ! "  she  went  on  more  lightly.  " He's 
nothing  but  a  house  of  abstractions — no  man; 
only  a  theory  box!" 

The  words  were  Greek  to  Hilma,  but  the  tone 
was  unmistakeably  contemptuous. 

"Yet  he  a  great  editor  has  become,"  she  ven 
tured. 

Miss  IncelPs  lip  curled.     She  had  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  great  editors. 

"And  up  at  the  cottage  where  we  all  so  happy 
were,  you  said  often— 

But  Jessie  could  not  listen  to  this. 

"A  lot  of  nonsense,  no  doubt,"  she  interrupted 
hurriedly.  "  But  there  was  one  part  of  it  that  was 
the  truth,  Hilma,  the  unshakable,  perfect  truth 
— my  fondness  for  you,  dear.  Now  after  I  have 
gone  home  you  must  just  keep  thinking  of  me; 
of  nothing  else.  Every  time  you  get  to  worrying 
about  Will  and  the  strike — that  you,  a  shepher 
dess  from  Arcady  should  bother  about  such  things! 
— just  you  shift  your  mind  to  Jessie  Incell. 
And  the  first  thing  you  know  the  hours  will  be 
gone  by  and  I'll  be  here  again.  I  want  to  see 
your  Billy-boy  with  his  eyes  open.  .  .  .  Hadn't 
you  better  change  your  mind,  bundle  him  up  and 
come  home  to  dinner  with  me  ?  Can't  Will  be 
left  to  himself  once?  At  the  cottage  I  remem- 


228  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

her  many  a  meal  that  he  cooked.  .  .  .  Well, 
to-morrow  then,  I'll  take  you  away  in  spite  of 
yourself  and — courage  Hilma!  I'll  see  that  Will 
gets  out  of  this  strike  mess;  he  shall  have  some 
thing  less  dangerous  to  do,  upon  my  honor  as  a 
journalist.  Good-bye  then." 

Down  in  the  street  she  waved  a  hand  and 
smiled  up  to  Hilma  at  the  window,  and  Donaghey's 
wife  turned  to  her  work  surprised  that  the  sun 
was  not  shining  into  her  little  place,  so  flooded 
it  seemed  with  cheery,  practical,  loving  helpful 
ness.  She  got  the  supper  and  had  her  table 
waiting.  It  seemed  to  her  it  waited  longer  than 
usual,  but  then  the  baby  waked  and  she  bathed 
and  dressed  it  for  the  night  and  nursed  it  till  it 
fell  asleep  again,  And  she  sat  with  it,  at  length, 
lying  across  her  knees,  waiting  patiently  for  her 
husband  to  come  that  she  might  share  her  happi 
ness  with  him. 

Donaghey  was  on  his  way  home.  In  his  dray, 
guarded  by  the  two  big  policemen  whose  pistols 
were  carried  significantly  in  sight,  he  had  reached 
the  confluence  of  streets  where  three  thorough 
fares  empty  into  the  main  traffic  river.  The 
irregular  space  thus  made  was  crowded  at  this 
hour  in  the  evening,  but  with  every  step  his  horses 
took  it  became  more  and  more  blocked.  Don 
aghey  drove  on  slowly,  carefully  picking  his  way, 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  229 

an  intent  frown  over  his  eyes  that  had  not  looked 
clearly  and  happily  on  the  world  for  many  days. 
The  two  policemen — one  sitting  beside  him,  the 
other  standing  watchfully  behind,  drew  closer 
and  slowly  their  fingers  closed  upon  their  weapons. 
When  Donaghey  (who  had  become  accustomed 
to  being  pilloried  vocally  on  his  homeward 
journey,  and  who  sat  in  affected  stolidity  that 
hid,  not  fear,  but  rage)  became  conscious 
that  there  was  more  than  the  usual  verbal 
menace  in  the  murmurs  that  came  up  to  him, 
the  two  officers  had  their  pistols  already  cocked, 
their  shining  barrels  pointing  downward  at  the 
mass. 

"You're  not  going  to  shoot?"  Donaghey  mut 
tered. 

"Not  unless  they  actually  board  us,  and  then 
two  cartridges  are  blank  anyway,"  the  man  beside 
him  answered. 

A  sudden  melting  in  the  crowd  permitted 
Donaghey  to  turn  his  horses  to  the  left  just  then, 
but  the  moment  he  had  done  so  he  saw  what  had 
caused  it.  A  few  paces  ahead  the  street  was  torn 
up  and  was  being  repaved,  and  the  strikers, 
strategically  falling  back  to  mislead  him,  were 
now  seizing  upon  the  broken  basalt  blocks  and, 
having  armed  themselves,  they  closed  in  again 
about  the  wagon. 


230  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"Come  down,  you  scab!"  A  bit  of  gravel  hit 
Donaghey's  cheek. 

"Come  down  out  o'  that  wagon!" 

"Hurry  now,  or  you'll  never  drive  another  dray, 
you  coward-scab!" 

Donahgey's  eyes  blazed.  He  set  his  teeth  and 
urged  his  horses  on. 

"Easy — you're  mad,"  growled  the  policeman 
beside  him.  "Don't  provoke  them." 

He  caught  the  lines  out  of  Donaghey's  hands, 
that  had  not  the  slightest  tremor  in  them.  He 
looked  curiously  from  the  rigidity  of  the  man 
beside  him  to  the  mob  swaying  like  a  fluid 
body. 

"Get  out  of  the  way  there,  you  fellows!"  he 
called. 

His  voice  was  big  and  young  and  jocular,  and 
he  looked  down  upon  the  white  threatening  up 
turned  faces  with  a  light  of  comradeship  in  his  eye, 
that  was  very  unlike  the  expression  it  had  for  the 
scab  he  was  protecting. 

"G'wan!"  he  growled  good  naturedly.  "Get 
out,  an'  don't  look  for  throuble!" 

With  an  ostentatious  relaxing  of  his  big  muscles 
he  lifted  the  pistol  he  held  that  all  might  see  it. 

A  short  laugh  came  up  from  below;  a  laugh 
that  appreciatively  differentiated  the  man  from 
his  duty.  But  the  mass  crowded  closer  and 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  231 

epithets  and  curses  beat  thick  on  Donaghey's  ears. 
His  hands  closed  again  on  the  reins,  but  his  face 
was  utterly  unmoved. 

"He's  no  coward,"  whispered  the  officer  be 
hind  to  the  one  in  front. 

"More's  the  pity,"  said  the  other  under  his 
breath.  "If  he  was  we'd  be  like  to  get  out  o' 
this  without  using  guns.  .  .  .  What're  ye  doin' 
there!"  he  exclaimed  breaking  off  suddenly  as 
Donaghey  laid  down  the  reins  and  stood  up. 

"  I'm  going  down  to  face  the  cowards. " 

"Ye're  crazy.     They'll  tear  you  to  pieces." 

"But  I'll  be  doing  some  tearing  first,"  the  Irish 
man  muttered. 

A  blind  rage  possessed  him  which  clouded  his 
eyes  and  made  his  ears  sing  dizzily.  He  had  his 
foot  on  the  wheel  and  was  just  about  to  jump 
when  the  big  policeman  caught  him  around  the 
waist  and  dragged  him  back. 

A  gasp  of  disappointment  went  up  from  the 
crowd.  It  was  such  a  sigh  as  a  wild  beast  might 
give  whose  jaws  had  opened  and  shut  again, 
balked. 

The  first  stone  came  quickly  after  that.  It  hit 
Donaghey  on  the  ankle,  and  he  writhed  and  twisted 
in  the  policeman's  grasp,  beyond  himself  now  or 
anyone  else;  blood-mad  with  rage  and  borne 
down  by  the  consciousness — against  which  every 


232  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

fibre  of  his  physical  being  revolted — that  he  was 
doomed,  and  doomed  to  passivity. 

A  rattle  of  stones  followed.  All  of  the  three  on 
the  wagon  felt  them  and  there  came  the  quick 
crack  from  the  officer's  pistols  in  answer. 

The  policeman  who  stood  in  front,  his  smoking 
pistol  in  his  hand,  could  see  the  effect  of  that  first 
report.  It  reminded  him  curiously  of  the  time 
when  he  was  a  child  who  played  with  motes  of 
dust  dancing  in  the  sunshine  that  streamed  through 
a  knothole.  A  wavering  splotch  of  humanity 
broke  and  formed  again  and  a  heavy  bit  of  basalt, 
hurled  with  savage  skill,  broke  the  scab's  arm  at 
the  wrist. 

Without  a  moan  Donaghey  bent,  picked  up  the 
stone  as  it  rattled  down  upon  the  bed  of  the  wagon 
and  rising,  hurled  it  back  with  all  his  might. 
He  fell  almost  crushed  beneath  the  shower 
of  stones  after  this,  but  his  missile  had  done 
execution  and,  if  he  felt  at  all,  he  experienced  sat 
isfaction. 

Out  on  the  ebbing  border  of  the  black  sea  of 
strikers  the  relief  squad  of  policemen  were  club 
bing  their  way  into  the  storm  centre.  The  cr-rack, 
cr-rack  of  the  officers'  pistols  rang  out  again, 
when  suddenly  a  man  with  his  coat  torn  from  him 
and  the  blood  dripping  from  a  wound  in  his  head, 
fought  his  way  to  the  wagon.  In  the  very  mouth 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  233 

of  the  pistols  pointed  at  him,  he  leaped  into  the 
dray  and  in  a  second  had  his  arms  around  Don- 
aghey. 

Both  the  mob  and  the  amazed  policemen  mis 
understood  his  purpose.  A  hungry  howl  of  satis 
faction  went  up  from  the  strikers.  The  third  car 
tridge,  the  first  real  one,  went  off.  The  man  shiv 
ered  but  recovering,  with  a  quick  blow,  knocked 
the  pistol  that  had  wounded  him  down  into  the 
street;  yet  he  did  not  relax  his  hold  on  Dona- 
ghey. 

The  Irishman  opened  his  eyes.  Through  a 
bloody  haze  he  saw  the  face  above  him. 

"Anthony — man,    God  bless  you! 
Hilma — promise.     .     .     .          The  words  rattled 
and  died  in  his  throat. 

Overman  could  not  speak.  He  felt  the  slow 
shiver  that  seemed  to  dissolve  the  very  fibres  of 
Donaghey's  being  and,  raising  himself  on  his 
elbow,  he  twisted  his  body  till  it  shielded  the 
Irishman  from  the  rain  of  stones. 

A  howl  of  rage  came  up  from  below;  the  mob 
felt  itself  betrayed;  cheated.  Over  the  face  of 
the  officer  whose  bullet  was  lodged  in  Overman's 
shoulder,  a  grayish  pallor  came.  Suddenly  he 
understood.  But  at  that  minute  the  press  of  men 
immediately  in  front  broke  and  the  horses,  shiver 
ing  and  maddened,  plunged  and  broke  away. 


234  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

The  sudden  jolt  of  the  wagon  threw  Overman 
into  the  street  and,  with  a  cry  of  satisfaction  that 
seemed  to  burst  like  a  living,  exulting  thing  from 
every  throat,  the  mob  flung  itself  upon  him. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

twitch,  they  tear  at  it  as  they  bite! 
Can't  you  see  them,  Jessie  ?  It  is  as 
though  the  fish  were  not  satisfying  their  hunger 
but  a  devilish  instinct  to  rend.  It  is  only  a  crumb 
of  bread — it  cannot  feel — it  must  not — it  can 
not.  .  .  .  But  see,  it  twitches  like  a  living 
thing  in  agony.  It  is  sent  by  very  reaction  from 
one  cruel,  greedy  mouth  that  tears  it  to  another 
cruel,  greedy  mouth  which  cuts  a  bit  from  the 
reeling,  bleeding  thing  and  sends  it  quivering 
on — to  be  torn  and  rent  and  bitten  forever  and 
ever — and  ever— and  .  .  ." 

Overman  opened  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  hear 
his  own  voice  singing  out  in  an  agonized  crescendo 
and  dimuendo  of  delirium. 

"What  was  I  saying?"  he  asked. 

Baumfelder's  fingers  lifted  from  his  wrist. 

'That  you  could  listen  to  Wissner's  playing 
forever,  Mr.  Overman,"  he  responded  pleas 
antly. 

"Yes." 

Overman's  dazed  eyes  wandered  from  the  sur 
geon's  face  to  the  nurse  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hospital  bed.  He  touched  the  bandage  on  his 
head  tentatively  and  looked  perplexed  at  his  hand 
when  it  dropped  trembling. 

235 


236  ANTHONY   OVERMAN 

"Yes,  I  could,"  he  repeated  slowly,  and  fell 
asleep. 

A  smile  of  victory  transfigured  the  surgeon's 
heavy,  dark  face.  He  walked  from  the  ward  to 
the  office  with  an  elation  in  his  every  movement 
that  explained  his  success — an  elation  that  was 
old  but  ever  new  to  him;  he  walked  like  a  material 
istic,  skilful  god  and  he  felt  like  one.  When  he 
got  to  the  office  he  took  down  the  telephone  re 
ceiver  and  in  a  moment  he  heard  Jessie  Incell's 
voice. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "he  will  live — surely." 

His  ear  caught  the  jarring  rattle  as,  without  an 
answering  word,  she  hung  up  her  receiver.  And 
Baumfelder  sat  for  a  moment  without  moving  a 
muscle,  a  smile  on  his  full,  sensuous  lips. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  line  Jessie  Incell,  too,  sat 
smiling.  It  was  a  weak,  uncertain  smile  in  which 
her  eyes  had  no  share.  In  them  there  still  dwelt 
the  misery  of  that  waiting  terror  of  apprehension 
that  had  almost  paralyzed  her  when  her  bell  had 
rung. 

She  was  still  sitting,  her  hand  lingering  lovingly 
on  the  receiver  that  had  brought  her  such  news, 
when  Hilma  in  her  black  dress  came  into  the  room, 
despite  her  height  and  the  slow  grace  of  her  long- 
limbed  body  she  looked  like  a  bewildered  child 
caught  up  in  a  maelstrom  of  tragedy. 


ANTHONY   OVERMAN  237 

"He  will— get  well,  Hilma.  He  will  live," 
Jessie  gasped  throwing  herself  into  the  Swedish 
girl's  arms. 

And  she  wept  as  though  her  heart  was  broken 
instead  of  being  eased  of  an  intolerable  fear. 
Hilma  held  her  close  and  patted  her  shoulder 
gently.  Her  own  eyes  were  full,  but  about  her 
mouth  the  lines  of  patient  sorrow  deepened. 

"A  woman  is  such  a — a  limited  creature," 
sighed  Jessie  at  last.  "The  harp  of  her  expression 
of  emotion  has  indeed  but  a  single  string.  If 
she's  miserable  she  cries.  If  she's — relieved,  she 
cries,  too." 

Her  voice  changed  suddenly.  Her  utterance 
lost  its  vehement  happiness  and  she  sought  to 
create  a  new  impression;  but  she  succeeded  only  in 
fuller  self-betrayal.  Hilma  though  was  uncon 
scious  of  it.  Subtlety  was  wasted  upon  a  nature  so 
broadly,  deeply  simple  as  hers.  And  her  own 
grief  still  preoccupied  her. 

"God  is  good,"  she  said  with  piteous  resig 
nation. 

Jessie  Incell  shivered.  In  a  fleeting,  cold 
breath  of  terror  she  realized  this  woman's  agony 
and  felt  again  how  nearly  she  too  had  been 
widowed.  The  thought  shamed  her.  At  a  time 
when  her  world  wa-s  still  shuddering  from  the 

O 

near  presence  of  Death's  icy  presence,  her  hurt 


238  ANTHONY   OVERMAN 

pride,  her  wounded  feminine  vanity  seemed 
pitifully  mean  and  unworthy. 

When  the  next  day  she  was  permitted  to  see 
him,  she  entered  Anthony's  room  at  the  hospital, 
chastened  and  with  something  of  that  grace  of 
self-unconscious  humility  which  breathed  a  bene 
diction  from  the  presence  of  poor  Donaghey's 
widow. 

Even  as  she  opened  the  door  she  heard  him 
say  her  name,  though  he  was  looking  at  the  nurse 
as  he  spoke,  and  in  his  eerie  voice  there  was  a  sub 
conscious  expression  of  uncertainty. 

"I'm  sane  enough  and  strong  enough  to  battle 
against  it,  Jessie,"  he  was  saying  argumenta- 
tively,  yet  with  a  puzzled  look  in  his  eyes  that 
rested  upon  the  nurse's  placid  features,  "but  I've 
not  got  sanity  and  strength  enough  to  conquer 
it.  I  know  now  the  unreality  of  it,  but  I  know  as 
surely  that  in  a  minute  or  the  fraction  of  a  second 
I  shall  not  know  it.  I  shall  see  the  fish  darting  at 
the  crumb  of  bread  and  shall  lose  my  identity 
again  in  that  one  helpless  thing  being  torn  to  pieces 
by  a  multitude.  I  shall  cry  that  they  are  fish  yet 
I  shall  feel  that  they  are  men.  I  shall  have  the 
consciousness  of  being  rent  limb  from  limb,  yet 
being  still  a  crumb  retaining  wholeness  enough  to 
float  always  within  reach  of  hungry,  gloating  eyes 
and  cruel,  greedy  mouths.  I  shall  feel  the  strain 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  239 

of  struggling  against  it,  but  more  the  terror  of 
yielding  to  the  fancy.  And  this — must  go  on 
forever  and  ever — and — ever — Why,  Jessie!" 

She  had  run  forward  with  a  cry,  conquering  her 
momentary  repulsion  for  his  bewildered  half- 
sanity.  She  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the 
bed  and  caught  his  hands  in  hers.  And  at  her 
touch  the  cobwebs  of  delirium  seemed  to  fall  from 
him  and,  looking  with  almost  incredulous  joy  into 
her  face,  he  spoke  her  name  again  with  such  ten 
derness,  such  a  warmth  of  yearning  love  as 
brought  expression  even  to  the  nun-like  face 
of  the  trained  nurse.  She,  looking  up,  saw 
Doctor  Baumfelder  at  the  open  door  beckoning 
to  her  and,  obeying,  she  left  the  room  and  the 
two  alone. 

"I  have  been  wearying  so  for  you,  sweetheart," 
he  sighed. 

"And  I  for  you,  Anthony." 

He  lifted  her  hands  and  pressed  them  to  his 
cheek,  to  his  lips. 

"The  touch  of  them  is  balm,"  he  whispered. 
"  I  feel  like  some  afflicted  wretch  whose  sovereign's 
hands  have  cured  him.  I've  been  tortured  by  a 
delirium,  Jessie,  that  has  become  half-conscious 
madness.  It — it— 

"We  wont  talk  of  it,  dear. " 

He  laughed  weakly,  putting  out  his  arm  to  draw 


24o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

her  to  him.  She  nestled  down  in  its  embrace  with 
a  sigh  of  utter  content. 

"It  can't  come  back,  my  darling.  You  are  my 
talisman.  Our  love  is  like  something  super 
natural — that's  outside  of  us  both  and  stands 
on  the  threshold  of  illusion  assuring  sanity  to 
me.  .  .  .  My  love — forgive?" 

His  failing  voice  reached  her  like  a  sigh  from 

O  o 

paradise,  and  the  little  movement  of  her  head  in 
reply  was  half  assent,  half  denial  of  wrong. 

As  though  it  were  an  Industrial  Monster  re 
quiring  but  a  blood-sacrifice  to  appease  it,  the 
strike  which  had  reached  its  climax  the  day  of 
Donaghey's  death,  subsided  quickly.  By  the  end 
of  the  week  propositions  of  compromise  were 
being  exchanged.  Overman's  name  was  men 
tioned  as  one  of  the  labor  commissioners  to  ar 
range  the  terms  of  settlement,  but  he  had  so 
nearly  yielded  up  his  life  between  the  pistols  of 
those  in  authority  and  the  fists  of  those  rebelling 
against  it,  that  the  men  were  back  at  work,  the 
streets  were  quiet  and  busy  and  the  state's  com 
merce  was  thriftily  seeking  its  old  channels  by  the 
time  he  was  permitted  to  sit  out  in  the  hospital 
garden. 

Morgan  came  to  see  him  here  one  day,  with  an 
offer  from  his  managing  editor.  It  was  one  of 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  241 

those  wonderful  warm  winter  days  given  to  San 
Francisco  instead  of  the  spring  she  has  never  ex 
perienced.  After  a  week's  rain  the  sun  shone 
out  of  a  sky  as  warmly  blue  as  late  spring  brings 
in  other  climates.  The  world  seemed  in  a  very 
rapture  of  creation.  The  bay  below  the  garden, 
new  washed  and  sparkling  like  a  pale  emerald, 
spread  gaily  out  and  the  city's  streets  terraced 
down  to  meet  it.  The  peculiar  delicacy  and  rich 
ness  of  California  roses,  coaxed  by  the  softness  of 
the  climate  to  live  outdoors,  sent  up  a  per 
fume  that  hot-house  flowers  cannot  yield.  The 
turf  was  of  a  thick,  healthy,  wet  green,  teeming 
with  life.  The  hills  beyond  were  green  as  sum 
mer  in  California  cannot  make  them,  and  off  to 
the  west  against  the  tender  sky  the  cross  on  Lone 
Mountain  was  etched. 

"It  serves  you  right,  of  course,  Overman," 
said  Morgan  taking  a  seat  at  the  table  besides 
which  Anthony  sat.  "The  fellow  who  interferes 
between  capital  and  labor  deserves  what  he  gets; 
— which  is  what  anybody  gets  who  tries  to  settle  a 
row  between  husband  and  wife.  Capital's  the 
husband,  of  course,  with  all  the  marital  rights, 
with  the  experience,  the  judgment,  the  bigger 
brain  and  the  real  values  at  stake.  He's  married 
to  Labor — a  somewhat  irrational  being  as  the 
ladies  are  apt  to  be,  but  very  useful,  even  indis- 


242  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

pensable,  as  they  too  are,  though  emotional, 
quick-tempered  and  likely  to  act  upon  impulse. 
Capital's  is  all  the  risk.  Labor's  is  all  the  gain 
— on  its  own  capital  invested,  which  is  merely  two 
hands,  and  the  supply  of  hands  will  always  exceed 
the  demand.  Labor  owes  Capital  obedience, 
just  as  the  good  old  marriage  service  knew  what 
was  best  for  both  husband  and  wife.  They  fall 
out,  of  course,  just  as  there  are  difficulties  even  in 
well-regulated  households  where  the  husband 
keeps  the  wife  fairly  under  control.  But,  how 
ever  bitter  the  disagreement,  there  is  no  divorce 
for  these  two;  and  the  only  thanks  the  outsider 
gets  who  interferes  is  to  get  his  head  smashed— 
which  doesn't  prevent  my  being  glad  that  yours 
is  mended  again." 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  Have  some  ?"  said  Over 
man,  pushing  toward  him  a  basket  of  fruit  which, 
with  a  pile  of  papers  and  magazines  stood  between 
them.  "The  only  exceptions  I  can  take  to  all  you 
say  are  first,  my  head  was  smashed  by  mistake, 
not  by  intention — the  mob  took  me  for  my  friend, 
poor  fellow,  whom  I  was  trying  to  save.  And 
second,  it  is  Labor  and  not  Capital  that's  the  hus 
band  of  the  industrial  marriage.  I'm  not  so  rigid 
a  sexualist  as  yourself,  so  I'll  not  impute  all  the 
weaknesses  to  the  wife  and  all  the  powers  to  the 
husband.  Labor's  is  the  terrible  risk  of  life  and 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  243 

time  and  strength.  What  more  can  a  man  give 
but  all  that  he  has  ?  If  Capital's  risk  is  really 
greater  it  is  because  she  has  stolen  so  much  of 
what  was  Labor's  as  to  leave  him  beggared. 
Capital's  is  the  feminine  portion — to  let  others 
work  for  her,  to  operate  through  others  and 
only  .  .  .  But  yours  is  a  clever  figure  of  speech, 
not  a  just  one.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  believe  you 
to  be  as  insincere,  Morgan,  in  your  pretense  of 
aristocratic  prejudice  as  in  your  theory  of  wifely 
subjugation.  Your  own  wife — 

"  My  own  wife,  when  I  get  her — and  I  will  get 
her — will  be  the  hundredth  woman." 

"Every  man's  wife  is  to  him.  Mine  will  be 
too." 

"Yours — Adonis?"  Morgan  leaned  forward, 
an  ironical  smile  on  his  lips.  "And  all  the  creeds 
of  the  Renunciants  ?  I  thought  it  was  the  proper 
Renunciant  stunt  to  postpone  matrimony  till  one 
is  ideally  fit  to  be  a  father.  Have  you  suddenly  be 
come  worthy  to  be  an  ancestor — purified  through 
pain,  a  smashed  head  say,  and  that  sort  of  thing  ?" 

Overman  laughed. 

"I'm  not  saying  I'm  fit.     I'm  merely  fitter  than 
I    was    because    I    know    more — about    myself— 
and  others  now.     As  to  the  creed,  it's   about  as 
full  of  errors   and    beauties    as    most,  I  suppose. 
But  really,  if  you'll  think  of  it,  is  there  anything 


244  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

more  offensive  that  one  man  can  call  another  than 
-'Adonis'?" 

"Doesn't  it  occur  to  Adonises  generally  to 
ascribe  the  name  to  envy?"  demanded  Morgan. 

"Invariably — when  Adonis   is   an   ass." 

"  Oh — if  you're  going  to  take  it  seriously.     .     . " 

"I'm  not." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Morgan  finished 
his  orange  and  put  out  his  hand  for  more  of  the 
fruit.  The  pomegranates  that  lay  on  top  of  the 
basket  reminded  him  of  Jessie  Incell;  he  knew  no 
one  else  who  was  fond  of  the  fruit. 

"I  wonder  if  there's  anything  so  unforgivable," 
Overman  xvent  on,  his  hands  resting  on  the  open 
book  in  his  lap,  "as  the  pretense  of  man  in  the 
singular  to  a  form  of  living  which  calls  for  strength 
where  most  men  are  weak, — and  perhaps  weakness 
where  men  are  usually  strong.  See  how  gleefully 
you  fellows  in  the  world  hunt  a  clergyman  down; 
how  keen  you  are  to  scent  any  merely  human  mis 
demeanor  on  his  part,  which  you  would  so  readily 
overlook  in  yourselves;  how  joyously  you  give 
tongue  and  set  the  world  of  dogs  to  bark  at  his 
heels.  And  why  ?  Because 

"Because  he  has  pretended  to  greater  holi 
ness  and  ought  to  be  made  to  live  up  to  every 
inch  of  his  pretensions,"  Morgan  interrupted  sav 
agely. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  245 

"But  he  is  human  after  all.  He  must  be 
tempted  and  troubled,  'even  as  you  and  I*.  '' 

"Then  let  him  recant.  Let  him  step  down 
publicly — (as  he  went  up) — from  the  eminence  of 
Phariseeism  and  admit  that  he  is  no  better  than 
other  men — but  surely  you  don't  mean  'you 
orl'l" 

"You  insist  upon  being  sarcastic  at  the  expense 
of  my  former  pretensions,  do  you  ?  Well,  take 
me  as  a  case.  There  was  no  insinuation  in  any 
thing  I  said  or  did  of  my  being  a  perfectionist." 

"Only  by  implication." 

:'Then  every  man  who  forms  a  theory  of  living 
and  tries  to  live  up  to  it  says  to  other  men,  'I  am 
better  than  thou'  and  must  therefore,  when  he 
himself  discovers  that  he  is  sadly  human,  be  ac 
cused  not  only  of  sin  but  hypocrisy." 

"It's  a  good  old  social  law  that  the  elect  should 
be  held  up  to  the  very  letter  of  the  thing  they  pro 
fess,"  declared  Morgan.  "There  should  be  no 
more  quarter  for  the  minister — I'm  not  includ 
ing  you  among  the  frocked  and  faultless — than 
for  the  woman  who  defies  the  steel-clad  law  in 
which  the  sex  walks  secure.  He  is  a  traitor  to  his 
order;  so  is  she.  And  both  should  suffer  in  the 
proportion  that  both  were  privileged  and  pro 
tected — privileges  and  protection  accepted  under 
false  pretenses,  if  either  renig." 


246  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"It  sounds  like  the  bitter  old  law  of  the  savage 

O 

religions.     What  hide-bound  moral  conservatives 

O 

you  men  of  the  world  are — for  other  people! 
Do  you  believe  only  in  forgiveness  of  sinners'  sins 
— never  of  those  of  saints  ? " 

"For  the  lady  who  throws  her  bonnet  over  the 
mill  and  elects  to  go  without  moral  headgear,  I 
have  as  much  charity  as — as  Doctor  Baumfelder 
has,  when  once  she  has  done  with  pretenses.  For 
the  Reverend  Grant  MacMillan — I  suppose  you 
are  thinking  of  him— 

"I  was  wondering  if  I  could  interest  you  in  him 
and  get  him  down  some  day  from  Little  Gap." 

"Well,  when  once  they  are  out  of  the  church  and 
off  their  moral  stilts  why — no,  I'll  admit  I  still 
have  it  in  for  them  for  their  old  hypocritical  main 
tenance  of  a  standard  they  knew,  in  their  hearts, 
neither  they  nor  anyone  else  can  or  does  live  up  to. 
.  Witness  the  humanizing  of  one  Anthony 
Overman!" 

He  got  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke.  Overman  rose 
too.  As  he  did  so,  the  book  that  had  lain  on  his 
lap  fell  to  the  ground  and  Morgan,  with  a  courteous 
recognition  of  the  other's  semi-invalidism,  bent  to 
pick  it  up.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  Jessie  IncelPs 
name  written  in  a  busy,  legible  round  hand  across 
the  first  page. 

"I'll  tell  the  Boss  then  that  you're  disposed  to 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  247 

accept  his  terms  and  will  call  to  see  him  yourself 
in  a  few  days,"  he  said  coldly,  quickly  withdraw 
ing  his  hand  from  Overman's  and  hurrying  away. 

At  the  gate,  though,  he  looked  back.  Overman, 
his  back  turned,  was  walking  toward  the  hospital 
building.  Morgan  felt  an  impulse,  of  which  he 
recognized  the  absurdity,  to  shake  his  fist  in  his 
direction.  But  he  contented  himself  with  swear 
ing  vigorously  as  he  said  to  himself: 

"It  sounds  melodramatic — which  is  why  I'll 
only  think  it — but  you  shan't  find  things  so  easy 
as  they  seem  to  be  going,  Adonis.  I'll  put  up 
something  of  a  fight  before  I'm  done.  .  .  . 
You're  too  good,  Jessie  Incell,  for  such  a  perfect 
man,  damn  him!  You'd  better  marry  a  sinner  who 
can  appreciate  you.  .  .  .  He'll  graciously  deign 
to  be  human,  will  he  ?  Well,  I'll  give  him  a 
chance  before  we  get  through.  The  impudence 
of  a  fellow  like  that  to  aspire  to  Jessie  Incell! 
What  the  devil  can  she  see  in  him!  She  might  as 
well  take  the  living  skeleton  or  the  bearded  lady 
seriously  as  that  freak!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TT  WAS  in  his  character  of  freak  that  Overman 
was  offered  an  editorial  position  on  the  In 
quirer.  The  paper,  which  was  strongly  demagogic, 
counted  upon  gaining  through  his  name  the 
clientele  to  which  the  Workingmen  s  Weekly, 
suspended  now  that  the  strike  was  over,  had 
catered. 

The  Inquirer  had  always  posed,  more  or  less 
sincerely  according  to  the  gain  or  loss  in  sight,  as 
the  laboring  man's  champion.  It  had  betrayed 
the  laboring  man  very  recently  because  of  the  in 
direct  profit  to  be  gained  by  so  doing.  But  its 
shrewd  management,  having  eaten  its  capitalistic 
cake,  decided  to  regain  all  its  old  workingman's 
circulation  by  making  capital  of  Overman's  name; 
and  by  giving  him  a  department  of  the  editorial 
page  for  his  own,  the  paper  counted,  to  some 
extent,  upon  evading  responsibility  for  his  radical 
views. 

Overman  found  when  he  was  strong  enough  to 
go  back  into  the  world,  that  it  had  heard  of  him; 
that  it  knew  his  name;  that,  in  a  way,  he  had  be 
come  a  nine-days'  hero  for  the  risk  he  had  run  that 
decisive  last  day  of  the  strike  and  for  the  near 
martyrdom  that  had  been  his.  He  also  found  that 
the  Inquirer  had  been  making  use,  in  its  own 

248 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  249 

sensational  way,  of  his  former  connection  with  the 
paper,  and  had  enterprisingly  reprinted  Miss 
Incell's  personal  narrative  of  her  discovery  of  him. 

For  Donaghey  who  had  died  beyond  the  pale  of 
regularity,  a  creature  without  caste,  a  victim  to 
that  very  irregularity  which  was  forced  upon  him 
because  all  his  world  had  temporarily  become 
irregular,  leaving  him  stranded  in  a  minority  and 
minus  that  heroic  uplifting  principle  which  makes 
minorities  martyrs — for  Donaghey,  resting  in 
unquestioned  regularity  at  last,  no  tears  save 
Hilma's  were  shed.  For  Overman  wounded  by 
a  policeman's  bullet,  the  reformed  and  now  reg 
ularized  strikers  had  that  species  of  extension  of 
self  adoration  which  men  feel  for  the  man  who 
makes  himself  the  type  of  their  class,  the  active 
embodiment  of  their  passivity,  the  individual  ex 
pression  of  their  composite  state  of  feeling.  And 
for  that  same  Overman,  half-killed  by  his  own 
party  in  trying  to  protect  the  scab,  whose  very 
name  was  unknown  to  them  yet  whose  protest  in 
flesh  and  blood  against  the  principle  of  strikes  he 
was,  the  employers'  association  chose,  in  the  era 
of  superficial  good-feeling  that  ensued,  to  have  a 
special  consideration;  quite  unlike  that  inspired 
by  the  style  and  the  context  in  which  he  had 
written  about  them. 

Overman,  who  knew  not  one  of  these  kings  of 


250  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

capital  except  by  name  and  reputation,  had  but 
one  word  for  dishonesty,  applicable  alike  to  rich 
and  poor.  Utterly  without  the  territory  which 
their  many,  money-tentacled  arms  could  reach, 
with  a  mind  untainted  by  the  sophistries  of  specu 
lation  which  grow  to  fit  conditions  as  rites  and 
practices,  those  devotional  weeds,  spring  up  about 
and  choke  out  the  simple  religions  that  flowered 
in  human  hearts — Overman  was  absolutely  un 
hampered  personally. 

It  suited  the  policy  of  the  Inquirer  just  then  to 
turn  over  to  him  a  column  of  a  great  newspaper, 
giving  him  such  liberty  of  speech  as  no  trained  and 
experienced  journalist  on  the  staff  enjoyed.  And 
Overman  struck  out  boldly  to  preach  his  policy— 
not  consciously  regardless  of  consequences;  simply 
ignorant  of  them.  His  was  a  simple  theory.  He 
believed  in  the  possibility  of  applying  the  stand 
ards  of  personal  honor  to  business  life  and  political 
affairs.  He  reverenced  no  opinion  for  the  sake  of 
those  who  held  it.  And  for  a  time  he  meted  out 
the  punishment  of  publicity  to  the  guilty  rich  as 
well  as  the  guilty  poor,  handling  his  subject  with 
a  clearness  of  vision  and  a  determined  strength 
that  was,  at  least,  uninfluenced  by  the  wealth  and 
standing  of  the  one  or  the  mob  popularity  of  the 
other. 

Overman  was  the  first  to  discover,  when  the 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  251 

workingmen  were  back  in  the  toils,  that  the  fruit  of 
their  supreme  sacrifice  had  been  wrested,  quietly 
and  secretively  from  them;  that  once  more  they 
had  been  betrayed  into  their  enemy's  hands. 
Then  he  exposed  the  whole  shameless  bargain,  by 
means  of  which  they  were  to  be  dazzled  with  a 
form,  while  the  substance  of  victory  had  again 
been  handed  over  to  their  employers.  His  expose 
which  held  up  the  opposition  paper  to  contumely, 
the  desert  of  the  revealed  hypocrisy  of  the 
demagogue,  was  one  of  the  most  welcome  articles 
the  Inquirer's  proprietor  had  ever  read  in  his  own 
paper.  He  called  upon  Overman  to  express  his 
gratification.  And  he  called  again  the  next  day 
to  express  his  complete  satisfaction. 

"So  complete,  I  may  say,"  he  added  slowly, 
"that  I  consider  anything  further  on  the  Strike 
Commission,  Mr.  Overman,  quite  unnecessary." 

"But  there'll  be  an  investigation  of  course, 
particularly  if  we  insist  upon  one,"  said  Overman 
surprised.  "Just  another  broadside  from  us  will 
result  in  victory." 

''It  has,  Mr.  Overman,  it  has  already." 

"An  investigating  committee  has  been  ap 
pointed  ?" 

The  proprietor  of  the  Inquirer  looked  at  him 
steadily  for  a  moment. 

"No — but  we  have  won,"   he  said    at   length, 


252  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"a  victory  that  more  nearly  concerns  the  Inquirer 
than  any  outside  triumph.  We  have  driven 
Lenihan,  proprietor  of  the  News,  into  the  fold  of 
the  Newspaper  Proprietor's  League  at  last.  We've 
been  trying  for  years  to  do  just  this.  After  your 
spread  editorial  of  yesterday  he  threw  up  his 
hands.  He  is  now  amenable  to  all  the  rules  that 
the  rest  of  us  have  made  for  the  common  bene 
fit.  .  .  .  And  now,  of  course,  we'll  call  it  off. " 

Overman  sat  flicking  his  pencil  with  his  finger 
nail.  In  spite  of  his  years  of  thought  he  was  very 
young  in  hope,  in  enthusiasm,  in  intolerance  of 
dishonesty  and  of  hypocrisy,  and  inexperienced  in 
contact  with  frankly  cynical  minds. 

"I  want  to  express  my  appreciation  again," 
said  the  gentleman,  "and  to  repeat  that  the  In 
quirer  owes  this  achievement,  which  is  recognized 
by  every  newspaper  proprietor  in  town,  to  your 
pen." 

Overman  rose  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"It's  thoroughly  undeserved  then,  Mr.  Cor 
coran,"  he  said  slowly.  "For  that  same  pen" 
—he  threw  his  pencil  from  him — "does  good, 
newspaper  good,  by  such  stealth  that  it  is  itself  un 
conscious  of  it.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  am  lay 
ing  it  down — so  far  as  your  service  is  concerned. 
It  wins  by  a  fluke  when  it  is  aimed  at  something 
else.  There's  no  trusting  a  pencil  like  that,  nor  the 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  253 

fellow  behind  it,  who  is  innocent  enough  to  go  to 
work  in  good  faith  and  fool  enough  to  resent  being 
called  off  when  an  honest  fight  is  at  its  critical 
point." 

Mr.  Corcoran  stared  at  him  genially  through 
his  glasses.  It  was  first  a  stare  of  amusement, 
then  amazement,  and  then  irritation.  But  he 
controlled  this  irritation,  for  Overman's  fame  was 
still  of  recent  date  and  his  prominence  on  the  In 
quirer  would  make  him  a  valuable  acquisition  to  a 
rival  journal. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "but  I 
trust  you'll  not  quit  the  paper  altogether.  I  must 
agree  with  you  that  unless  controlled  and  directed 
by  a  more  practical  mind,  one  with  sound  business 
judgment,  even  so  striking  a  talent  as  your  own  is 
not  available  for  the  conservative  and  delicate 
function  of  editorial  expression.  But  your  ex 
perience  must  have  shown  you  that  no  paper  in 
town  can  afford  to  give  you  freer  scope  than  the 
Inquirer.  I  hope  you'll  remain  with  us  and  in 
some  special  capacity  at  the  same  salary — I'll 
discuss  the  matter  with  Mr.  Larkin  and  Mr. 
Morgan — find  yourself  more  agreeably  situated." 

"And  I  said  nothing — practically  consented  by 
my  silence,"  Overman  concluded,  after  giving  an 
account  of  the  affair  the  next  day  to  Miss  Incell. 

"And  you  want  me  to  pat  you  on  the  back  ?" 


254  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

she  demanded,  "and  say  that  you're  not  nearly 
so  big  a  crank  as  you  once  were  ?  Well — you're 
not.  But  oh,  man  Anthony,  there's  still  room  for 
improvement.  After  all,  the  Inquirer  belongs  to 
Corcoran;  he  has  a  right  to  say  what  he  pleases  in 
it,  through  his  editorial  writers,  and  just  as  much 
right  not  to  say  what  he  wishes  to  ignore.  A 
writer  enlists  under  his  boss's  flag,  but  that 
doesn't  imply  that  the  whole  campaign  may  be 
altered  by  the  said  writer,  the  troops  turned 
right  about  and  set  to  righting  Moors  instead  of 
Turks." 

"Such  a  bit  of  a  philosopher  it  is!"  Overman 
said.  "But  what  becomes  of  principle  in  it  all?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  do  my  duty  in  the  humble  sphere  to  which  it 
has  pleased  Mr.  Corcoran  to  call  me.  I  don't 
have  to  do  my  boss's  duty,  too.  If  I  owned  the 
Inquirer  you  should  have  such  a  debauch  of  truth- 
telling,  Anthony  Overman,  as  would  endow  a  bit 
of  hypocrisy  with  all  the  piquancy  of  novelty. 
And  between  us  we'd  probably  make  ducks  and 
drakes  of  the  property  and  have  to  go  to  work 
again  for  some  other  Corcoran." 

O 

He  dropped  his  pencil  and  came  over  to  her 
desk.  Since  he  had  left  the  editorial  room,  a  desk 
had  been  placed  for  him  in  the  room  where  three 
special  writers  worked.  Labadie,  the  third,  never 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  255 

appeared  till  late  so  they  had  the  place  to  them 
selves. 

"I  want  the  price  I'm  selling  myself  for,  Jessie," 
he  said  softly.  "I  want  it  now — to-day." 

Her  eyelids  fluttered  and  she  braced  herself  in 
her  chair. 

"Well,  I  should  say,"  she  answered  with  a  care 
fully  preoccupied  air  as  she  bent  over  ostensibly  to 
read  what  she  had  written,  "that  all  the  horde  of 
Overman  beneficiaries  will  rise  up  and  call  you 
blessed,  if  you  insist.  They're  still  too  poor  to  pay 
prices,  aren't  they  ?" 

He  looked  down  upon  the  pretty  pert  poise  of 
her  head;  he  looked  so  long  that  she  glanced  up 
and  met  his  eye. 

"Now  you  know,"  she  said  with  a  quick  blush, 
"you  didn't  do  it  really  for  me.  I'm  only  an  inci 
dental.  You  did  it  for  the  Home  for  Dirty  and 
Detached  Boys  and  the  Refuge  for  Unattractive 
and  Uncertain  Girls,  the  Reverend  Grant  Mac- 
Millan  up  at  Little  Gap,  and  the  crippled  seams 
tress  down  on  Tehama  Street,  who's  fallen  heir 
to  all  poor  Hilma's  things  while  Hilma  wears  her 
trained  nurse's  rig  as  though  it  were  a  priestly 
vestment,  and  the  baby  plays  at  Mrs.  Connor's 
feet  and — Anthony,  you  mustn't!  No — not 
here!" 

She  slipped  away  from  him  rosy  but  determined. 


256  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"It's  shocking  of  you,  Anthony,"  she  scolded. 
"I'll  complain  to  Mr.  Corcoran." 

"And  you  think  you  can  keep  putting  me  off 
like  this  ?"  he  cried. 

"I  don't  think  of  you — too  much,"  she  an 
swered  saucily,  "now  that  you  are  well." 

"You  don't  trust  me  ?" 

"I  don't — know  you,  quite.  Do  you — your 
self?" 

"I  know  that  I  want  you — I  want  you  so  in 
tensely  that  I  am  conscious  of  no  other  want  in 
the  world  beside." 

An  unholy  light  of  triumph  gleamed  in  her  eyes; 
she  loved  every  break  in  his  voice  that  betrayed 
him. 

"Oh,  life's  not  to  be  considered  solely  as  a 
personal  matter,"  she  said  retreating  before  him 
with  rebuking  loftiness.  "Consider,  Anthony, 
before  it  is  too  late — 

"I'll  consider  nothing.  Come — yield!  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  but  you  and  me.  When 
— this  evening  ?" 

The  shrill  whistle  of  the  tube  interrupted  him. 

"Mr.  Morgan  wants  t'  see  ye,  Mr.  Overman, 
'bout  a  story,"  a  boy's  voice  chanted  into  Over 
man's  ear  and  the  two  heard  the  click  of  the 
mouthpiece. 

'Mr.  Morgan  wants  t'  see  ye,  Mr.  Overman 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  257 

'bout  a  story,'  "  Miss  Incell  mimicked;  a  childish 
gayety  possessed  her,  she  was  so  happy. 

"Tell  me  first  when  ?      Beloved — this   evening 

J  5> 

— yes  r 

He  had  caught  her  hands  but  she  tore  them 
from  him. 

"No — no,  don't  touch  me!  Don't  you  see," 
she  cried  shaken  by  emotion,  "that  I  can't  resist 
— that  you  make  me  weak  ?  Oh  Anthony,  be 
merciful.  I — surrender.  Now — go!" 

She  sank  down  into  her  chair,  throwing  her  arms 
on  the  desk  and  burying  her  face.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  looking  down  upon  her.  He  was 
shaken  by  tenderness,  by  triumph.  His  very 
soul  lay  obedient,  grateful  at  her  feet,  yet  his 
mastery  of  this  woman  was  sweeter  to  him  than 
he  had  ever  dreamed  passion  might  be.  For 
another  minute  he  stood  silent;  then  he  touched 
her  hair  with  trembling  fingers  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TY  7"HEN    Overman    presented    himself   before 
Morgan  he  had   regained  his  self-control, 
but  his  ears  were  ringing  with  the  sweet  plaint  of 
her  voice. 

"I'm  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,  Mr.  Morgan," 
he  said  slowly.  A  formality  unusual  in  the  In 
quirer  office  had  crystallized  between  these  two. 
"I  was  much — occupied.  And,  if  it's  possible 
I'd  prefer  not  to  go  out  on  anything  to-day.  I 
have  a  pressing  personal  matter  to  attend  to." 

Morgan's  jealous  eye  scrutinized  his  face. 

"But  it  isn't  possible,"  he  answered  irritably. 
"Colonel  Geiger  is  in  town  for  the  first  time  sicne 
the  settlement  of  the  strike.  I'm  convinced  that 
with  your  knowledge  of  how  that  strike  was 
settled,  you're  the  one  man  that  can  get  an  inter 
view  from  him  that  will  put  his  party,  the  em 
ployers'  association  in  a  beautiful  hole." 

"But  Corcoran  told  me  himself  he  didn't  want 
any  more  of  that  story." 

"Corcoran  doesn't  want  any  more  roasting  of 
the  News.     But  if  Geiger  will  tell  the  story,  as  he 
knows  it,  the  Inquirer  must  publish  the  news- 
doctored  a  bit  to  belittle  Lenihan's  part  in  it.     We 
want  the  interview.     Get  it  if  you  can." 

He  turned  away  mechanically;  and  Overman's 
258 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  259 

mind  turned  to  his  work.  After  all,  why  not  ?  he 
asked  himself.  Nothing  could  make  the  hours  pass 
so  quickly  as  work.  He  flung  himself  upon  a  west 
bound  car  and  arriving  at  the  crest  of  a  hill  at  a 
half-mansion,  half-chalet  built  of  gray  stone  and 
dark,  polished  redwood,  he  sent  in  his  card  to 
Colonel  Geiger — a  peace  colonel  and  a  war  mil 
lionaire.  So  sudden  and  complete  had  been  this 
man's  prosperity  during  the  war  with  Spain,  that 
it  might  have  seemed  as  though  men  had  been 
transferred  by  tens  of  thousands  from  Maine  to 
California  and  the  Philippines,  merely  to  use  the 
steamships  of  this  colonel  on  the  governor's  staff 
and  pour  the  nation's  dollars  into  his  capacious 
pockets.  He  bore  his  good-fortune  jovially,  most 
jovially;  living  in  a  haze  of  alcoholic  exultation, 
in  which  the  world  appeared  to  revolve  pleasingly 
about  his  own  rotund  personality.  But  this  ten 
dency  never  interfered  with  that  keen  eye  for  busi 
ness  for  which  he  was  justly  famed  (and  which 
had  led  to  his  selection  as  Strike  Commissioner  by 
his  fellow  business  men)  for  Colonel  Geiger  was  a 
most  systematic  man  who  believed  that  there  wras 
a  place  for  everything;  the  proper  place  for  a  man 
to  permit  himself  to  be  mentally  incapacitated,  he 
conceived,  was  in  his  own  home  where  he  would 
be  surrounded  by  those  whose  natural  interest 
lay  in  safeguarding  him;  and  not  in  the  street 


26o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

or  in  the  office  where,  like  a  crab  he  was  liable 
to  be  swallowed  piecemeal  by  the  rapacious  pluto 
crats  who  delved,  like  himself,  in  the  mud  at  the 
bottom  of  deep  financial  waters. 

"The  Gunnel,  Sah,  is — a  trifle  indisposed," 
said  the  portly,  very  black  negro  who  came  back 
to  Overman  with  his  card  on  the  silver  salver. 
"He  begs  you  to  excuse  him,  sah,  and  hopes  he 
may  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  to-maw 
aft'noon — Thank  ye,  sah." 

To-morrow  afternoon!  Overman  laughed.  He 
felt  like  a  boy  who  laughs  at  all  the  world  when 
playtime  comes.  No,  to-morrow  afternoon  would 
not  find  him  mounting  Colonel  Geiger's  marble 
steps.  To-morrow  afternoon — but  first,  he  would 
telephone  the  office. 

He  got  Morgan  on  the  'phone  and  told  him  that 
Colonel  Geiger  would  see  an  Inquirer  reporter 
the  following  afternoon. 

"The  deuce  he  will!"  Morgan  snarled.  "Every 
paper  in  town  will  have  got  an  interview  out  of  the 
old  duffer  by  then." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?"  demanded 
Overman.  "  *  The  Gunnel,  sah,  is  indisposed 
and—' " 

"Oh— h!  Why  didn't  you  say  so!"  A  chuckle 
sped  over  the  wire.  "There's  a  means  of  working 
old  Geiger's  indisposition  for  all  it's  worth.  I 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  261 

happen  to  know  what  appeals  to  him  when  he's 
indisposed.  I'll  send  .  .  .  Never  mind — all 
right.  Good-bye." 

When  life  is  too  bitter  or  death  too  great  or  love 
too  sweet,  man  goes  to  Nature  for  sympathy.  No 
one  else  is  wise  enough,  old  enough,  young  enough 
to  give  it  to  him.  Out  on  a  sandy  point  that  juts 
into  the  bay  like  a  half-heralding,  half-reverential 
courtier  bowing  toward  the  Golden  Gate,  Over 
man  found  his  place  and  his  hour.  He  had  come 
out  after  his  simple  preparations  were  done  to  find 
the  sun,  which  usually  sets  here  in  a  smoky  veil  of 
mist  that  swathes  its  end  in  mystery,  riding  regally 
to  death.  In  its  ecstasy  of  dissolution  it  dyed  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  with  the  gorgeous  sublimity 
of  disintegrated  color.  It  splashed  every  wave 
with  brazen  gold.  It  painted  the  clouds  and  re 
painted  them,  and  retouched  and  regilded  and 
added  a  shade  here  and  threw  a  light  there,  chang 
ing,  shifting,  with  a  brilliant  fecundity  of  color 
design  that  made  the  heavens  too  great  a  glory  to 
be  looked  upon.  It  transfigured  the  frail,  absurd 
little  pleasure  house  that  stands  out  on  the  cliff, 
changing  it  into  a  fairy-castle  built  of  marbled 
rainbows.  It  threw  out  generous  handfuls  of 
gold  and  tipped  the  masts  of  fishing  smacks  that 
bobbed  in  a  haze  of  golden  sea  and  sky.  And  it 
spent  itself  too  upon  Anthony  Overman's  face, 


262  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

already  glowing  with  an  inward  light  that  flooded 
his  world. 

He  hardly  planned  as  he  lay  there  on  the  sandy 
point.  What  he  dreamed  was  a  series  of  visions 
in  which  he  walked  as  though  to  strains  of  inspir 
ing  music — and  did  not  walk  alone.  He  saw  the 
face  of  the  girl  he  loved  irradiated  and,  though  all 
the  world  was  painted  with  gold,  the  light  in  her 
eyes  outshone  all  else.  He  saw  himself  speeding 
with  her  up  to  the  mountains,  to  the  sweet  solitude 
of  the  log-cottage  in  the  forest.  He  saw  glorious 
mornings  in  which  they  two  were  spectators  of  the 
recreation  of  the  world;  and  the  pale,  ascetic 
figure  of  his  old  self,  seeming  to  issue  from  the 
prayer  house  after  a  vigil  of  fasting  and  supplica 
tion,  came  out  into  the  dawn  and  in  a  curious 
miracle  of  sympathy  accompanied  them.  He 
saw  days  of  exquisite,  simple  living.  He  saw 
evenings  of  peace.  He  heard  the  sound  of  his 
wife's  voice  and  her  laugh  in  the  solemn  solitudes 
of  the  forest.  He  felt  the  glad  comfort  of  her  pre 
sence  close  beside  him.  He  knew  the  unutterable 
delight  of  living  with  the  mind  and  heart  open  to  a 
mind  and  heart  attuned  to  fullest  sympathy.  And 
he  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  such  completion,  of 
such  full  possession  of  powers  and  faculties  as 
made  him  feel  that  he  had  just  sprung  into  man 
hood,  and  that  only  in  the  degree  in  which  they 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  263 

two  lived  together  did  his  individual  life  gather 
significance  and  strength. 

The  great  red  disk  flattened  on  the  waves  semed 
to  become  misshapen  like  something  soluble.  It 
bulged  out  on  either  side  and  in  this  uncouth  shape 
it  danced  in  globes  of  black  upon  the  sky  and 
shore  and  sea,  when  Overman's  protesting  eye 
turned  away.  When  he  looked  again  a  line  of 
sea  crossed  its  flaming,  softening,  blurring  face. 
The  line  mounted  slowly,  steadily,  at  the  last 
speedily,  and  when  at  last  the  gold  crescent 
splashed  into  the  sea,  Overman  unconsciously 
waited  for  that  sputtering  hiss;  the  old  war-cry 
with  which  water  conquers  fire. 

He  rose  and  turned  his  back  upon  it  and,  .walk 
ing  quickly  as  though  now  that  the  day  was  spent, 
time  had  suddenly  become  precious,  he  hurried 
to  the  top  of  the  hill.  So  quickly  the  glory  faded 
that  earth  and  sea  and  clear,  unclouded  sky  were 
all  a  somber  gray.  It  was  as  though  the  exacting 
hand  of  the  Artist  had,  with  a  single  gesture,  wiped 
out  the  painting  that  disappointed  him. 

Overman  caught  the  train  back  to  town.  As  it 
sped  from  curve  to  curve  he  caught  himself  looking 
back,  hoping  again  to  find  that  radiance  of  color 
and  form.  But  the  sky  darkened  quickly  and  the 
lights  were  twinkling  in  the  town  when  he  reached 
it.  It  was  the  sight  of  one  of  them,  the  great  crys- 


264  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

tal  lantern  that  swung  in  front  of  Colonel  Geiger's 
door,  that  suddenly  concentrated  Overman's 
thought.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  There  were 
still  some  hours  to  live  through.  Obeying  a 
whimsical  impulse,  he  got  off  his  car  and  made  his 
way  again  up  those  imposing  steps. 

He  had  given  his  card  to  the  man  and  was  al 
ready  seated  in  the  beautiful  entrance  hall  that 
was  half-library,  half  conservatory,  when  he 
heard  a  husky,  genial  voice  and  the  portieres  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  series  of  chambers  were  pushed 
aside. 

"You're  a  desperately  saucy  girl,  m'  dear,"  the 
Colonel  was  saying  in  that  unctuous  tone  begotten 
of  a  subtle  double  intoxication  to  which  he  was 
notoriously  susceptible,  "and  a  devilish  cl — 
clever  one.  You've  made  me  ch — chatter  t'  you 
like  a  ch — chatter-box.  And  now  for  all  I've 
given  you,  there's  one  thing  you're  going  t'  give 
me — Oh  yes,  y'  are,  m'  dear,  you — 

A  quick  little  figure  darted  past  him  out  into  the 
hall  and  hurried  toward  the  door.  The  portly 
Colonel,  looking  like  a  white  copy  of  his  own 
black  servant,  followed.  And  both  stood  aghast 
at  sight  of  Overman.  Their  irresolution  seemed 
only  to  stir  in  him  a  greater  need  for  action.  But 
what  emotion  underlay  that  action  Jessie  Incell 
had  not  time  to  realize  while  Colonel  Geiger  was 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  265 

sent  spinning  back  into  the  parlor  from  the  blow 
Overman  dealt  and  she,  caught  up  almost  bodily 
under  his  arm,  was  hurried  out  into  the  street. 
It  came  to  her,  though,  with  an  intolerable  sense 
of  wrong,  when  he  released  her  arm  and  faced  her 
there  on  the  corner. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  speak,"  she  cried  quickly. 
"  Don't  dare  to  say  to  me  what  you're  thinking ! " 

"You  knew  what  it  meant  when  you  went 
there?"  he  demanded  as  though  she  had  not 
spoken. 

She  shut  her  lips  and  walked  on  without  an 
swering. 

"Or  did  that  scoundrel  Morgan  send  you  with 
out  telling  you  ?" 

He  walked  on  beside  her  looking  down  be 
seechingly.  But  she  tossed  her  head  in  tune  to  an 
inward  note  of  defiance. 

"Then  you  knew?  .  .  .  And  went  pur 
posely  to  that  drunkard's  house!"  he  exclaimed 
wrathfully.  "To  take  advantage  of  his  drunken 
ness  and  his  weakness  for  women. — My  God, 
Jessie !  I'll  kill  Dean  Morgan  for  this ! " 

"For—      "  she  began  ironically. 

And  then  she  grew  white  about  the  lips,  but  shut 
them  resolutely. 

"You  could  have  left  when  you  saw  what 
use  was  being  made  of  you.  .  .  .  But  you 


266  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

stayed,  beguiling  that  wretch,  letting  him  go  so 
far  as  to  put  his  hands  upon  you,  luring  him 
on  as  surely  for  your  purposes  as  some— 

"/  got  the  story!" 

There  was  a  barely  audible  emphasis  upon  the 
pronoun,  a  significance  that  struck  Overman 
dumb.  In  the  flash  of  her  contempt  he  saw  him 
self  dreaming  away  the  afternoon  which  this  girl 
had  used  for  work,  such  as  it  was;  and  a  nauseat 
ing  consciousness  came  to  him  of  failure,  of  un- 
fitness,  of  being  shamed  by  the  triumph  of  her  sex 
over  his;  a  consciousness  that  did  not  belittle  his 
shame  for  her,  nor  the  wound  from  her  that  left 
him  stabbed,  yet  incredulous. 

She  too  was  incredulous — of  her  own  cruelty. 
Yet  she  had  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  her  head  with 
the  intimation  in  his  voice  and  had  known  that  she 
must  stop  him  or  shriek  for  mercy. 

"If — if  you  had  gotten  it,  I  needn't  have  gone 
there,"  she  said  after  a  time.  But  her  voice  had 
more  of  appeal  in  it  than  reproach. 

He  did  not  speak  and  in  her  turn  silence  stung 
her  to  speech. 

"Suppose  the  old  fool  did  put  his  hand  on  my 
arm — what  of  it  ?  There's  no  spot  left  on  it — 
on  me.  Suppose  I  did  match  my  wit  and — and 
womanhood  against  his  possession  of  facts  that 
shall  shame  and  dishonor  him  and  men  like  him, 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  267 

hypocrites  and  scoundrels  who  have  cheated  the 
people  of  their  birthright!  Suppose  so!  I  ran  no 
risk;  I'm  a  woman,  not  a  chit  without  experience. 
And  in  what  I  did,  I  did  more  for  the  people  you 
preach  about  than — than  you  did,  Anthony 
Overman,  when  you  failed  to  wrest  this  weapon  out 
of  the  hands  of  their  enemy.  Bosh!  It's  the  degen 
erate  who  whines  about  methods.  It's  the  de 
generate  who  longs  weakly  and  intends  kindly — 
and  fails.  It's  the  degenerate  who  is  incapable  of 
that  ardor  for  the  end  that  hides  and  atones  for  and 
blesses  the  means.  It's  degenerate  not  to  see  in 
the  beginning  all  the  chances  one  takes  and 
to  abide  by  one's  choice.  It's  degenerate  to 
enlist  with  faint-hearted  scruples  and  if's  and  but's 
and  perhaps's.  Anthony,  I  tell  you  the  laboring 
world — whether  one  works  for  bread  or  the  zest 
of  it — is  still  a  battle-field  where  he  deserves  to  be 
shot  who  falters,  who  refuses  obedience.  Success 
is  the  flag  and  the  reward  and  the  achievement. 
Nature  built  her  world  on  martial  law;  and  only 
the  degenerate  indicts  her  wisdom.  And  his  indict 
ment  is  her  vindication.  Success!  Success! — Why, 
Anthony—  '  her  tone,  which  had  been  almost 
flippant  at  first,  had  deepened  into  passion  as  she 
spoke;  but  they  had  reached  the  busy  street  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill  and  the  sudden  closing  about 
them  of  the  commonplace,  as  well  as  the  quiet  of 


268  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

that  still  figure  beside  her,  made  her  drop  her 
voice  and  moderate  her  gait.  "Tell  me,  what 
battle  would  be  won  in  business,  in  law,  in  politics, 
in  real  war  if  strategy  were  discredited  ?  And  I'm 
a  soldier.  A  working  woman  has  no  sex — that 
she's  conscious  of.  If  such  creatures  as  Geiger 
have  an  over-consciousness  of  it  that's  because  of 
their  nastiness — not  mine." 

She  looked  up  at  him  but,  though  he  walked 
beside  her,  his  eyes  were  set  straight  ahead  and 
there  was  an  expression  on  his  face  that  made  her 
almost  doubt  that  he  had  heard  all  she  said.  But 
that  he  had  his  first  word  testified. 

"The  degenerate,"  he  said  gravely,  "the  kind  of 
man  you  call  degenerate — knows  how  only  life 
may  be  made  worth  living.  For  he  knows  what 
sacrifices  are  worth  while.  Must  these  things  be 
done  in  order  to  live  ? — Must  one  live  ?  T  do  not 
see  the  necessity' — either.  No,  nor  the  good — nor 
the  fitness — nor  the  decency  of  such  living!  One 
must  not  live;  unless  he  live  worthily.  Better 
a  thousand  times  that  life  should  be  sacrificed 
than  the  one  thing  infinitely  greater — principle. 
Better  that  the  degenerate  should  be  pressed  to  the 
wall  by  the  bustling  crowd  that  soils  its  soul  and 
bends  its  spirit  for  a  little  success  or  a  great  one,  or 
a  mere  temporary  self-glorification,  than  become  a 
success-worshiper.  ...  So  long  as  success  is 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  269 

the  measure  of  man's  unchristianity,  so  long  will 
there  be  what  you  call  the  degenerate.  It  is  he, 
and  not  those  who  so  name  him,  who  has  the 
keenest  sense  of  the  value  of  life,  a  sense  so  keen, 
so  strong,  so  true  that  a  purblind  world  of  deadened 
consciences  cannot  even  conceive  of  it.  It  is  he 
who  struggles,  struggles  desperately,  with  tooth 
and  nail,  untiringly,  unconquerably  for  life — 
the  life  of  the  spirit.  It  is  he  who  single-mindedly 
concentrates  all  the  powers  of  his  being  upon  the 
one  point.  It  is  he  who  fights  for  this  in  detail, 
with  arms,  without  them,  with  tenderness,  with 
savagery — and  it  is  he  who  survives  in  the  spiri 
tual  world;  the  world  of  far-sighted  intellect,  the 
world  of  imagination  and  ideality,  of  the  pure  brain 
and  the  unselfish  heart,  the  world  of  the  elect  of  the 
past  and  the  future,  the  heaven  of  honor.  For — 
for  it  is  he  who  is  fittest." 

He  paused  and  stood  a  moment  facing  her.  A 
great  weakness  had  come  upon  her  now  and  she 
swayed  with  his  every  word  like  a  candle-flame 
upon  which  the  wind  blows. 

"But  not  to  mate  with  you,"  he  said  humbly,  in 
a  voice  that  was  soft  but  toneless.  "Good-bye, 
Jessie." 


CHAPTER  XX 

'"T^HE  stir  of  mystery,  the  odor  of  romance,  of 
"*•  possibility,  which  not  even  steam  and 
wireless  telegraphy  can  divorce  from  the  sailing 
of  a  ship,  hung  about  the  wharf.  Overman 
made  his  way  through  the  singing  of  the 
cranes,  the  snorting  of  donkey  engines,  the  bust 
ling  of  trucks  and  the  heaps  of  barrels  and  boxes 
and  sacks  which  cumbered  the  black  planks, 
softened  by  wear,  by  the  tread  of  horses'  feet  bring 
ing  in  the  muck  from  the  street  in  their  traffic  from 
deck  to  dock. 

"You  sail  in  the  morning?"  he  asked  the 
mate. 

"Yes,  if  I  can  get  these  damn  slow  fellows  to 
move  their  legs." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"New  Orleans — why?" 

"I  want  to  ship  with  you." 

"You  do!    As  what,  might  I  ask  ?" 

"As  anything,"  said  Overman. 

The  mate  looked  at  him  curiously.  He  was 
very  tall,  a  man  nearly  fifty  and  awkwardly  built 
despite  his  height  and  breadth  of  shoulder. 

"Never  been  to  sea,  I  suppose  ?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Well. " — The  mate  scratched  his  stubby  brown 
270 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  271 

gray  mustache. — "I  guess  you  don't  want  to  go 
very  bad.  Better  think  it  over  and— 

"  But  I  do  want  to  go  very  bad  and  there's 
nothing  to  think  over." 

"You  surely  don't  want  to  do  stoking;  we've 
got  men  enough  for  anything  else — such  as 
they  are,"  he  growled. 

"Yes,  I  want  to  do  stoking,"  said  Overman. 
"And  I  want  to  work  now.  Can  I  help  load  ?" 

"Can  you  help  load! — you're  not  a  bit  crazy  ?" 
asked  the  mate  suspiciously. 

Overman  laughed. 

"Nor  running  away  from  the  police  ?"  the  mate 
went  on. 

"No.  Call  the  officer  up  yonder  and  ask  him 
if  a  fellow  my  height  and  build  and  complexion  is 
wanted." 

The  mate's  sharp  eye  took  him  in  from  head  to 
foot. 

"Young  fellow,"  he  said  slowly,  "Jim  Gallo 
way — that's  me — was  once  captain  of  a  good 
ship.  He  lost  her — and  with  her  he  lost  every 
hope  in  life — except  one;  the  hope  of  becoming 
captain  again.  The  day  after  the  commission 
put  the  blame  on  him  he  went  down  to  the  docks 
to  ask  for  work.  He  worked  two  lifetimes  instead 
of  one  to  get  the  thing  he  wanted.  He's  mate 
now  and  he'll  be  captain  again.  You  needn't  tell 


272  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

me,  but  I  suppose  you've  lost  your  ship,  too.  It's 
none  of  my  business,  whatever  it  is.  Take  your 
chance — you've  got  a  right  to  it." 

Overman  threw  off  his  coat.  A  passion  for  ac 
tion  possessed  him,  for  legitimate  output  of  human 
energy  which  should  have  tangible  results.  The 
burn  of  the  rope  as  it  sped  along  his  hands  was 
welcome  to  him.  The  weight  of  the  casks,  the 
strain  on  his  shoulders,  the  awakening  of  his 
muscles,  the  play  of  his  strength,  so  long  unused, 
had  something  sanitary,  wholesome  about  it. 
With  every  pull  and  heave  and  tug  and  strain 
that  complicated  mesh,  which  civilization  weaves 
between  man  and  his  soul,  seemed  to  be  torn  into 
shreds.  Direct  contact  with  real  things,  the  sense 
of  physical  aches,  the  simplicity  of  life  when  all  it 
consists  of  is  pulling  and  hauling,  of  human 
strength  acting  upon  inanimate  things — all  this 
was  as  salt  with  freshening  vigor  to  him  as  the 
breezes  from  the  bay.  In  the  turmoil  of  his  emo 
tions,  it  rested  him  exquisitely  to  spend  his  every 
atom  of  force  upon  material  things.  Here  among 
these  sweating,  smudged-faced  fellows,  whose 
calloused  hands  were  bleeding  and  torn,  yet  too 
work-hardened  to  be  sensible  of  their  wounds, 
Overman  seemed  to  find  himself  again.  It  was 
his  own  self,  his  old  self;  a  creature  beyond  con 
ventional  promises  and  threats,  worldly  rewards 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  273 

and  punishments.  It  was  an  intelligence  as  un 
hampered  by  longing  for  wordly  advancement  as 
an  animal's.  It  was  a  body  as  free  from  taint  of 
vice,  of  weakening  self-indulgence  as  an  anchor 
ite's.  It  was  a  mind  clear,  if  limited,  and  tuned 
to  a  simplicity  of  existence  which  made  nothing 
of  most  things  men  value  and  everything  of  one 
they  find  it  comfortable  to  ignore. 

His  sleep  that  night  cut  day  from  day  with  a 
completeness  that  few  save  children  know.  And 
his  work  the  first  day  down  among  the  furnaces 
left  him  physically  so  weak  that  he  did  not  rightly 
know  whether  his  entity  consisted  of  more  than  an 
aching  head,  a  blistered  face  and  tortured  back. 
When  his  old  strength  came  back  to  him,  work 
had  become  routine  and  the  vessel  was  far  out  at 
sea.  By  then  it  seemed  to  Overman  that  it  was 
more  than  miles  of  water  and  the  passage  of  time 
that  separated  him  from  San  Francisco.  And 
there  was  in  his  mind  a  weakness  that  averted  his 
attention  involuntarily  when  he  would  have 
dwelt  upon  the  past.  It  was  as  though  he  was 
recovering  from  a  severe  illness  and,  as  yet  in 
stinctively,  felt  himself  unfit  to  receive  full  con 
sciousness. 

Galloway,  who  had  watched  him  curiously, 
called  him  on  deck  one  day.  The  voyage  had 
been  a  singularly  calm  and  peaceful  one  and  a 


274  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

sense  of  being  favorites  of  fate  cheered  the  super 
stitious  souls  of  officers  and  men. 

"D'ye  mind  telling  me  just  what's  your  graft  ?" 
the  mate  asked  him.  "Perhaps  I  could  help 
you  a  bit." 

Overman  met  his  keen,  kind  eyes.  "There  are 
times,"  he  said  slowly,  "when  I  hardly  think  I 
have  anything  so  tangible  and  reasonable  and 
expressible  as  a  graft — thank  you,  Mr.  Galloway. 
I  did  want  new  conditions  that  evening  I  came 
to  you— 

"You  must  have  wanted  'em  pretty  bad  to  take 
a  stoker's  place.  It  nearly  killed  you  that  first 
week,  didn't  it  ?" 

"Yes.  But  I  knew  I  was  strong  enough  to  bear 
that — or  anything  else.  I  have  worked  hard  most 
of  my  life. " 

"And  what'll  you  do  when  we  get  to  New 
Orleans  ?" 

"Go  ashore  and  work  on  the  levee." 

"Why?" 

"Just  because  that's  the  place  where  two  hands 
and  a  big  frame  like  mine  are  sure  of  being  in 
demand." 

"If  that's  the  best  you're  counting  on,  you'd 
better  ship  with  us  again.  I'll  throw  Knowles  out 
when  we  make  port  and  give  you  his  job." 

Overman  shook  his  head.     "No  thank  you.     I 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  275 

couldn't  sleep  nor  eat  nor  breathe  in  Knowles's 
job  or  anybody  else's." 

Galloway's  grizzled  eyebrows  met  in  a  frown, 
and  he  shot  a  quick  suspicious,  glance  at  him 
which  Overman  was  not  expected  evidently  to 
intercept. 

"No — I  was  honest  with  you,  I'm  not  mad, 
Mr.  Galloway.  And  I'll  tell  you  what  my  graft  is 
— I've  just  thought  of  a  way  to  name  it.  It's  a 
refusal  to  live  according  to  cannibalistic  rules  in  a 
man-eating  world.  I  will  not  benefit  by  some 
body  else's  misfortune.  I  will  not  go  through  life 
with  my  fangs  bared  for  a  gash  at  a  weaker  man's 
breast  and  my  hands  gory  with  the  blood  of  his 
opportunity.  I  will  starve  before  I  murder  his 
chance,  before  I  cheat  him,  before  I  put  my  foot  on 
his  head  in  order  to  mount." 

Galloway  took  off  his  cap  and  scratched  his 
head. 

"Just  a  crank  then  ?"  he  said  inoffensively. 

"That's  all,"  agreed  Overman  smiling. 

"Religion?"  asked  the  mate. 

"No — sociology.  It's  the  love  of  people  that 
possesses  me.  But  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  what 
a  terrible  indictment  of  man's  moral  status  it  is 
that  anyone  who  refuses  to  take  his  place  in  the 
bad,  blood-selfish  lists,  anyone  whose  first  care  is 
not  himself  should  be  so  incomprehensible  to  his 


276  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

neighbors  that,  in  despair  at  classifying  him,  they 
put  him  down  as  a  denizen  of  that  No-Man's  land 
where  men  walk  about  without  their  brains  ?" 

"It's  a  pretty  selfish  world,"  Galloway  said 
slowly.  "But  there's  justice  in  it — for  the  strong. 
For  the  weak — well,  they  go  down  with  their  ships, 
but  not  in  honor.  And,  considering  it  fairly,  it's 
not  a  bad  idea.  Who'd  want  to  be  god  of  a  weak 
ling  world  ?" 

"I — I  a  thousand  times  rather  than  creator  of 
a  cruelly  bestial  one,  where  men  prey  on  each 
other  with  their  sharp  wits  and  rend  each  other 
with  their  cruel  tongues;  where  they  slay  with  a 
system  and  devour  with  a  custom;  where  each 
stands  perpetually  on  guard  before  the  murder 
in  the  other's  eye  and  hugs  and  hides  his  weakness 
for  fear  his  enemy  will  tear  his  breast  open  and 
discover  it." 

Galloway  looked  at  him  curiously,  a  slow  smile 
on  his  big  mouth. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? "  he  asked. 

"Change  it — for  myself,  and  for  everybody 
whose  manhood  I  can  reach;  be  just  a  sort  of 
spiritual  free-lance,  ready  to  be  hired  in  any  cause 
in  which  the  wages  are  the  kind  of  money  that  is 
current  in  my  country." 

"And  what  do  you  promise  your  converts,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?" 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  277 

"Nothing." 

'Tis  a  great  inducement,"  commented  Gallo 
way  with  slow  irony. 

"Nothing  but  their  own  self-respect,"  added 
Overman,  "and  the  possibility  of  meeting  their 
souls  face  to  face  without  shuddering." 

"There  was  a  fellow  once  named  Christ  who  had 
in  a  way,  plagiarized  your  notions,  Overman- 
innocently,  of  course.  Great  minds,  you  know 
He  promised  life  everlasting  and  the 
glory  of  the  Father's  approbation,  a  pull  with  the 
authorities  and  a  reserved  seat  on  Judgment  Day, 
where  you  could  see  the  lava  spouting  and  the 
crater  boiling  as  safely  and  comfortably  as  you 
can  down  in  Hawaii.  And  yet —  '  He  shrugged 
his  clumsy,  square  shoulders;  an  expressive  ges 
ture. 

But  when  they  landed  the  mate  offered  Over 
man  his  help  and  sang  the  praises  of  his  dear  love, 
the  sea,  which  had  taken  his  strength,  his  hope, 
his  youth  and  flung  them  all  away;  only  to  receive 
the  greater  devotion  of  his  middle-age. 

"At  least,"  he  said  showing  square,  but  white 
teeth  in  a  rare  smile  that  made  his  stern  face  look 
boyish  and  even  lovable,  "on  the  sea  we're  not 
cannibals  while  actually  on  the  voyage.  And 
here  on  the  levee — take  care,  little  Jesus,  the  very 
job  ye're  taking  is  rightly  another's." 


278  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Overman  answered  with  a  gesture  that  took  in 
the  busy,  crowded  dock  with  its  miles  of  waiting 
merchandise.  There  was  room  for  all  comers 
here,  he  said.  Then  he  shook  hands  warmly 
with  the  mate  and  they  parted. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Overman  that  he  was  working 
his  way  up  the  coast  till  he  got  to  Charleston, 
where  he  was  helping  to  build  the  roadway.  He 
had  hardly  been  conscious  of  the  deep-seated 
restlessness  that  possessed  him.  He  had  stayed 
longest  in  New  Orleans,  for  there  he  had  picked 
up  a  deserted  infant  and  had  worked  till  he  had 
enough  to  insure  care  and  protection  for  it. 

"You  are  not  a  Catholic,  Monsieur,"  said  the 
old  French  nurse  who  received  his  last  payment 
and  directions  about  the  child.  "What  religion 
shall  the  baby  have  ?" 

"The  only  one  you  could  consistently  give  her, 
Sister  Euphrosyne,"  he  had  answered  to  her  relief. 

Galloway,  who  hunted  him  up  on  his  second 
trip,  taunted  him. 

"There  are  other  children  lying  on  other  door 
steps.  There  is  misery  that  calls  out  for  you, 
Mr.  Overman.  Why  pick  and  choose?"  He  had 
made  inquiries  in  San  Francisco  and  knew  An 
thony's  history  now. 

"I  don't — you  know  I  don't,  Galloway,"  he 
said  with  a  laugh.  "I  merely  don't  ignore  what 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  279 

I  do  see,  that's  all.  If  the  rest  of  you  would  do 
as  much  you'd  not  find  near  so  much  to  guy  in 
me.  And  /  don't  go  on  my  way,  calmly  ignoring, 
with  a  comforting  feeling  of  pity,  with  a  sense  of 
my  own  kind-heartedness  and  sensibility — as  you 
would,  Galloway,  and  without  its  costing  you  a 
cent  or  an  hour's  work." 

"It's  all  very  well,"  remonstrated  the  mate 
quizzically,  "but  how  will  you  put  by  a  penny 
for  a  time  when  you  yourself  can't  work  and  the 
supply  of  Overmans'll  be  scarce  ?  What'll  you 
do  in  your  old  age?" 

"My old  age — my  old  age,"  repeated  Anthony 
astonished.  "I  had  never  thought  of  that — I 
never  do." 

"No,"  grumbled  Galloway,  "likely  not.  Ex 
pect  to  be  taken  up  out  of  the  way  of  economies 
like  that  plagiarist  I  spoke  to  you  of  first  trip." 

Overman  shivered — the  memory  of  his  delirium 
came  back  to  him;  though  it  seemed  not  a  memory 
but  a  prophecy.  Still  he  laughed  when  he  spoke. 

"They  don't  make  martyrs  of  ordinary,  humble 
cranks  like  me,  Galloway.  And  for  the  old  age- 
it's  far  off  anyway." 

It  seemed  farther  and  farther  ofF  for,  in  the  va 
rieties  of  labor  that  Overman  spent  his  body,  every 
muscle  grew  firmer  and  stronger.  He  was  a  lithe 
thing  of  iron  by  the  time  he  left  a  farm  in  west 


28o  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Pennsylvania  and  got  to  New  York.  He  worked 
his  way  across  the  ocean  then  on  a  cattle  steamer 
and  landed  on  the  continent  with  a  strange,  new 
stirring  of  his  senses;  the  reawakening  of  estheti- 
cism  that  had  lain  hidden  beneath  the  purposeful 
energy  that  had  directed  his  life  for  these  many 
months.  But  he  did  no  more  than  see  the  top  of 
the  cathedral's  spire  from  the  docks,  for  the  emi 
grants  were  being  herded  into  the  steerage  quar 
ters  of  an  outgoing  steamer,  and  a  passion  of  pity 
for  their  unknowing  terror  and  helplessness  took 
possession  of  him. 

When  the  ship  sailed  he  went  with  it  in  the 
steerage,  packed  in  with  the  rest  in  that  floating 
human  cattle-car  where  misery  rots  and  filth 
festers;  where  the  strong  trample  the  weak,  and 
human  eyes,  dumb  for  lack  of  the  foreign  tongue, 
have  the  accusing  look  that  makes  one  turn  away 
as  from  a  nightmare. 

And  because  he  was  successful  in  a  measure  in 
relieving  misery,  in  enlightening  ignorance,  in 
righting  wrong  and  upholding  a  few  who  would 
have  sunk  but  for  him,  he  made  this  his  life  for  a 
time;  working  his  way  across  and  re-crossing  in 
the  steerage  on  the  various  steamship  lines;  labor 
ing  on  the  docks  between  voyages  and  occa 
sionally  even  sparing  himself  the  luxury  of  a  day 
in  Edinburgh,  a  night  in  Lucerne,  a  few  hours 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  281 

in  Amsterdam's  galleries  and  once,  when  a  ship's 
doctor  with  whom  he  had  crossed  several  times, 
ordered  it,  he  had  walked  for  a  week  along  the 

Rhine. 

But  with  the  leisure  to  see  new  sights,  to  study 
strange  conditions,  old  civilizations  and  the  effect 
of  religion  upon  them,  came  an  awakening  of 
thought  that  could  find  no  expression  in  the 
isolated  life  he  lived,  intimately  concerned  as  he 
was  with  strangers'  most  closely  personal  affairs. 
When  he  began  to  summarize  his  impressions  on 
paper  it  was  as  nearly  an  involuntary  act  as  men 
tality  is  capable  of.  Had  he  analyzed  the  impulse, 
he  would  have  found  as  its  basis  the  habit  of  seeing 
his  thought  in  words  which  his  newspaper  experi 
ence  had  given  him,  lacking  which  now,  he  felt  the 
incompleteness  of  the  mental  process  without 
really  being  aware  that  he  did. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"'TpO  A  MAN  like  me  reared  in  no  church,  abso- 
A  lately  uninfluenced  by  creed,  and  with  no 
interwoven,  supernatural-sentimental  memories  of 
childhood — to  such  a  man,  who  has  unconsciously 
belittled  in  his  rare  meditations  on  the  subject, 
the  effect  of  and  the  place  of  established  religions 
in  life,  the  great  Church  here  is  a  revelation.  The 
church  of  stone  and  marble  as  well  as  the  church 
of  sentiment  and  souls  and  power  to  uplift  and 
to  torture  and  cast  down. 

"My  reading  did  not  prepare  me  for  this.  Nor 
could  such  an  imagination  as  mine,  even  though 
fed  upon  the  Inquisition  records,  realize  to  itself 
what  the  sight  of  the  confessionals  in  this  Antwerp 
Cathedral  have  brought  home  to  me.  I  suppose 
one  must  have  had  a  religious  childhood,  which 
is  a  sort  of  training  school  for  the  later  assimila 
tion  of  marvels,  to  be  able  to  bear  full  knowledge 
of  what  The  Church  means. 

"These  confessionals  wring  my  heart.  I  feel  a 
living,  present  misery  as  I  look  on  the  wonder 
fully  carved  figures  on  the  threshold  of  each  pen 
itential  cell.  That  old,  black-brown  wood  pol 
ished  and  almost  petrified  by  the  long  pressure  of 
centuries — how  well  the  artist  knew  its  fitness  to 

embody  agony.     No  marble  figure,  no  writhing 

282 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  283 

slave  in  bronze,  no  sculptured  man  in  stone  is 
human  to  me;  but  these  penitents — not  yet  peni 
tent — are  terribly  symbolical  of  mental  torment, 
of  soul  conflicts,  of  the  agony  of  ignorance  and  sin 
that  must  have  been  endured  here;  and  lived 
through,  conquered  sometimes,  for  here  and  there 
in  the  awful  community  is  one  whose  face,  whose 
bearing  is  of  a  peacefulness,  of  a  sudden  freeing 
from  sin,  a  releasement  of  soul-burdens  that  takes 
a  weight  too  from  the  watcher's  heart. 

"But  it  falls  again  and  deepens  till  I  feel  penned 
in  with  the  misery  of  mind  that  must  have  driven 
the  spiritual  children  of  the  seventeenth  century 
to  the  Church  for  refuge — the  Church  which  cre 
ated,  but  allayed,  it. 

"Religions  are  made  in  the  infancy  of  nations 
and  bear  the  mark  of  the  spiritual  child's  crude 
handwork.  There  is  an  old  Portuguese  synagogue 
at  the  Hague  where  to-day  the  Jews  worship — 
Indians  still  in  emotional  and  esthetic  capacity, 
praying  to  a  bigger  injun. 

"Yet  the  imagery  of  the  more  enlightened 
churches — 'Washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb' 
.  .  .  'There  is  a  fountain  rilled  with  blood* 
.  .  .  Realize  it,  picture  it!  Isn't  it  the  meta 
phor  of  barbarism,  of  materiality  ? 

"It  is  disgust  that  one  feels  for  the  wielder  of 
such  weapons,  but  how  one  aches  for  the  poor, 


284  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

simple,  credulous  sinners  who  trembled  at  the 
skull-and-cross-bones  religion  that  terrified  them 
into  amenability.  Imagine  how  near  to  God — • 
how  almost  God  himself  a  Bishop  in  his  robes  of 
state  seated  on  his  exquisitely  carved  and  spired 
throne — a  cathedral  within  a  cathedral — imagine 
what  this  lord  of  the  Church  must  have  typified  to 
the  peasant  looking  up  for  a  dazzled  moment  from 
his  beads  as  he  knelt  in  the  obscure  distance  on  the 
marble  floor. 

"The  man  who  has  had  a  creedless  childhood 
will  always  experience  a  certain  lack  in  feeling 
what  these  great  cathedrals  mean.  I  am  a  re 
ligious  barbarian  looking  upon  the  glories  of  Rome, 
saying  to  myself,  'A  great  religion — a  wonderful 
one — one  to  admire,  to  adore' — but  I  ache,  I  ache 
for  the  dead  sorrows  of  centuries  of  Dark  Ages 
Catholics. 

"Look  from  the  mailed  marble  figures  of  the 
mighty  Prankish  Archbishops  on  their  tombs  of 
stone  and  bronze  and  iron — these  greate.st  repre 
sentatives  of  the  Church  when  Catholicism  was 
at  its  culminating  point — look  from  these  men  of 
action,  these  warriors  hardly  disguised  in  priests' 
robes  to  the  tortured,  stripped,  humbled  body  on 
the  Cross.  And  realize  how  far  from  its  source  an 
organized  religion  may  be  deflected. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  285 

"In  this  strange  pilgrimage  of  mine — an  un 
believer  bound  unbelievingly  for  a  Mecca  whose 
sanctity  he  denies — something  in  the  Church 
beckons  yet  forever  eludes  me.  I  haunt  these  old 
cathedrals  trying  to  tear  from  them  the  mystic 
attraction  they  have  for  me.  I  have  a  sense  of 
physical  depression  in  looking  at  the  horrible  sub 
ject  which  this  religion  gave  to  art — the  material 
ism  of  the  religious  conception  that  made  artists 
and  the  world  for  thousands  of  years  see  beauty 
where  there  is  none.  The  crucifixion  is  unbeauti- 
ful.  The  Christ  was  not  an  Adonis.  No  man 
whose  mind  is  free  can  look  with  religiosity  upon 
this  naked  figure.  He  feels  the  human,  masculine 
shame  the  man  Christ  would  feel  could  he  see 
these  churches.  I  would  not  have  my  body  bared 
to  the  eyes  of  materialistic  idol  worshippers  for  all 
the  glory  that  is  his.  And  who  would  not  rather 
not  be  Christ  than  the  pretext  for  Saint  Bartholo 
mew's,  whose  tocsin  rang  out  across  the  street 
from  where  I  am  ? 

"Yet  I  envy — envy  this  man  the  victory  that  is 
his.  What  a  tremendous  thing  to  make  the  sym 
bol  of  shame  (imagine  a  gallows  instead  of  a  cru 
cifix  and  the  strange  inversion  of  ideas  that  could 
associate  holiness  with  the  black  cap,  the  rope, 
handcuffs  and  the  ball  and  chain!)  what  a  very 
miracle  to  make  this  a  thing  that  women  pray  to, 


286  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

that  babies  take  reverently  in  their  tiny,  praying 
fingers,  that  old  men  look  upon  exalted  when  they 
come  to  die  and  have  but  one  last  sight  of  the  dear 
familiar  world  they're  leaving — and  give  it  to  this 
symbol  of  the  malefactor's  death." 

"  How  strange  it  is  that  I  who  am  not  a  Christian 
cannot  look  without  suffering  on  the  Passion,  upon 
which  millions  of  the  devout  gaze  unmoved,  with 
placid,  accustomed  eyes  and  steady,  serene  lips 
and  unshaken  equanimity. 

"A  sympathetic  shock  seizes  one  who  looks 
with  the  eye  of  the  imagination — the  fearful  pain  in 
one's  side  where  the  spear  struck  his;  the  numb, 
dead  agony  in  hands  and  feet;  the  tearing  at  one's 
vitals;  the  maddening  torture  to  one's  brain!  And 
yet  to  me  they  are  only  morgue  tableaux — pictures 
of  fleshly  corruption  and  decay;  an  agony  with 
nothing  inherently  lofty  or  soulful  or  religious 
about  it.  I  could  laugh  at  the  poor  old  grand- 
fatherly  god  who  holds  in  his  arms  a  mass  of 
putrid  flesh;  kings  cured  by  the  very  touch,  but 
this  helpless,  old  bearded  Jehovah  is  impotent. 

"I  weary  of  the  oft-repeated  butchery;  it 
sickens  me.  Not  once  but  a  thousand  times  is 
Christ  crucified;  the  churches  over  the  continent 
are  a  shambles  that  the  materialistic  mind  may 
revel  in. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  287 

"But  the  most  terrible  crucifix  in  the  world 
hangs  in  the  oldest  church  at  Cologne.  It  is  a 
bough  of  a  tree  grown  Y-shaped  and  depending 
from  it  hangs  that  triangular  image  of  corrupted 
and  tortured  flesh  still  in  the  shape  of  man,  the 
head  fallen  on  the  hollow  shoulder,  the  meagre 
body  blood-drained  and  with  the  poor  ribs  showing 
through.  Horrible! 

"The  Church  to-day  is  on  a  chronological  level 
with  the  style  of  art  she  fostered,  which  best  ex 
presses  her.  The  spouting  trunk  of  a  beheaded 
martyr,  the  tongue  of  another  held  by  the  hang 
man's  iron  pincers  and  fed  to  a  dog,  the  realistic 
slaughter  of  innocents — it  is  all  materialism,  gross, 
crude,  disgusting,  and  with  a  still  more  signifi 
cant  ignoring  of  the  immaterial  attributes  of 
super-humanity. 

"And  yet,  one  day,  I  heard  a  Capuchin  monk 
play  the  Ave  Maria  on  the  great  organ  at  Lucerne 
and  it  left  me  trembling.  Oh,  this  wonderful 
Church  that  has  something  in  it  for  the  very  ones 
who  revile  it! 

"We — myself  and  men  whom  I  am  like,  fanatics, 
philosophers,  dreamers,  cranks — yes,  we  are  all 
of  these;  some  of  us  more  of  one  sort  than  we'd 
care  to  admit — but  we  are  as  we  are  with  no  merit 
nor  blame  to  us  for  being  so.  'For  though  I 


288  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

preach  the  gospel  I  have  nothing  to  glory  of;  for 
necessity  is  laid  upon  me.' 

"Christ  himself — the  unread,  unlearned,  humble 
Jewish  socialist,  or  perhaps  only  the  embodied 
thought  to  still  humbler  communists  whose  bodies 
lie  unknown,  unrecognized  in  a  still  lower  stratum 
of  the  coral  island  of  man's  ethical  growth — who — 
what  is  Christ  ? 

"I  am  one  of  the  obscure  Christs.  (Were  he  God 
— if  indeed  He  could  make  so  impotent  a  confes 
sion,  so  wasteful  a  delegation  of  force — this 
would  not  be  irreverence.)  And  myself  and 
men  like  me  are  the  insects  of  the  spiritual 
world  whose  ideals  after  death  go  to  build  up 
the  land  of  beliefs  upon  which  higher  organisms 
may  live. 

"And  that  we  are  Christs  is  not  indicative  of 
virtue  or  divinity.  One  can  no  more  be  other  than 
he  is,  nor  feel  otherwise  than  he  must  than  the 
humblest  wheel  in  an  engine  can  refuse  to  turn  at 
the  bidding  of  the  steam.  We  are  what  we  are — 
and  would  more  surely  and  terribly  crucify  our 
natures  by  denying  them  than  by  submitting  to 
misapprehension  or  contempt. 

"Christs!  However  false  the  religion  that  may 
spring  from  our  teachings — however  false  the 
teachings  themselves  may  prove  to  be.  For  the 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  289 

everlasting  truth  of  unselfish  intent  and  testimony 
was  in  us  and  what  we  tried  to  teach. 

"  But  what  truth  ?  What  teaching  ?  What  end  ? 
"God  knows.     All  man  can  guess  is  altruism. 

"This  is  the  third  time  that  I  have  seen  the 
panorama  Golgotha,  a  passion  play  in  two  tab 
leaux.  On  one  side  in  the  light  of  noon-day  is  the 
march  up  Calvary;  on  the  other  in  the  dusk  of 
evening,  the  crucifixion.  The  first  a  tragedy  of 
action;  the  second,  the  peace  that  follows  it.  I 
see  it  as  I  write  as  plainly  as  I  did  in  the  hours  I 
spent  looking  at  it — the  three  Roman  heralds 
heading  the  procession;  the  High  Priests,  massive, 
strong,  arrogant;  the  Virgin — really  motherly  and 
human  this  time;  the  Magdalen  a  note  of  beauty; 
the  clear,  light  sky;  the  Roman  villas;  the  temple; 
the  crowds — finely  draped  old  oriental  figures; 
the  brooding,  barren  heat  of  the  town — the  low- 
set,  straight  lines  of  the  houses,  the  roofs  with  their 
rugs  and  amphorae;  the  contagion  of  excitement 
and  mystery  in  the  air;  the  walls  beyond  that 
shut  in  a  people  killing  its  hope. 

"It  is  not  a  painting;  it  is  a  vision  of  life,  pal 
pitating;  life  with  its  mystery,  its  cruelty.  And 
it  leads  the  eye  on  as  resistlessly  as  though  it  held 
its  place  in  that  multitude,  following  up  over  the 


290  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

low  hills,  till  it  turns  to  the  west;  to  that  hush  of 
darkness  and  death  of  motion  on  the  other  side,  so 
far,  far  off  in  the  dusk  that  one's  vision  can  reach 
the  heart  of  the  tragedy  only  by  distinguishing 
the  Magdalen  huddled  at  the  foot,  where  in  an 
appalling  stillness  and  shadow  one  takes  in  finally 
the  majesty,  the  accusing  tenderness  and  unen 
durable  power  of  symbolism  in  these  tall  crosses — 
a  threat  and  a  promise — silhouetted  against  the 
dark  sky  .  .  .  And  then  the  fleeing  groups 
below,  like  gusts  of  humanity  driven  before  the 
wind. 

"Mine  must  be  a  crude,  emotional  nature — for 
this  quasi-mechanical  work  has  made  the  Christ- 
legend  more  real  to  me  than  all  the  art  of  the 
continent. 

"I  see  now — and  I  feel.  Perhaps  I  shall  even 
believe.  If  I  had  power  to  make  clear  to  you  the 
impression  this  has  made  upon  me,  you  would 
understand  why  I  fancy  that  this  may  be  my 
farewell  to  the  world." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

TESSIE  INCELL  sat  with  these  sheets  of  paper 
in  her  hand.  She  had  read  and  re-read 
all  afternoon.  It  was  obvious  that  this  monody 
had  not  been  written  for  her  eye;  it  was  evident 
that  not  till  the  last  had  Overman  connected 
her  in  his  mind  with  this  record  of  his  inner 
most  thought.  The  handwriting  of  the  address 
was  unfamiliar,  but  the  package  had  been  mailed 
from  St.  Moritz, where  the  hermitage  clings,  as  with 
talons,  to  the  sheer  side  of  the  mountain  of  rock. 

She  touched  the  sheets  as  though  they  had  be 
longed  to  someone  who  was  dead,  as  she  sat  with 
the  scattered  pages  lying  in  her  lap,  looking  out 
upon  a  world  that  she  did  not  see.  Two  fine  lines 
of  pain  were  drawn  between  her  brows  and  her 
lips  drooped  in  bitter  curves. 

When  a  knock  came  at  the  door  she  gathered 
the  papers  languidly  and  was  standing  with  her 
back  to  the  door  when  Dean  Morgan  entered. 

"Surprised  to  see  me?"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  can 
see  you  are.  But  I  can't  work  and — say  you're 
not  sorry  to  see  me,  Jessie." 

"No — I'm  glad!"  She  put  out  a  hand  to  wel 
come  him.  "Your  voice  is  full  of  strength  and 
courage  and — and  cordiality,  Dean.  And  I— 

have  been  listening  to  ghosts." 

291 


292  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

She  shivered  as  though  from  physical  cold. 
His  eyes  dwelt  scrutinizingly  upon  her  as  he  led 
her  to  a  seat  in  the  window  and  sat  down  beside 
her. 

"For  the  cordiality — that's  a  new  name  for  it. 
But  I'm  glad  about  the  strength  and  the  courage 
—you  make  me  need  all  I've  got.  For  I've  come 
to  put  a  formal  question — dear  little  girl — and 
to  get  my  answer  for  good  and  all.  Wait — listen. 
I  want  to  make  a  plea  if  the  Court  please — the 
plea  for  an  average  life  for  an  average  man  and 
woman.  You  are — you  are  an  average  woman, 
thank  God,  Jessie — not  a  whit  too  good  for 
human  nature's  daily  wear  and  tear.  I'm  average 
minus;  you're  average  plus.  But  the  minus  man 
that  I  am  loves  the  plus  woman  that  you  are  with 
his  whole  heart  and  soul  and  body;  and  has  these 
many,  many  years  when  you  wouldn't  give  him  a 
chance.  Come — will  you  listen  with  an  open 
mind  ?  Will  you  consider  what  I  have  to  say 
— on  this  very  average  topic — dearest?" 

He  put  the  question  with  his  old  facetious  accent, 
but  he  took  her  cold  hands  in  his  and  held  them 
with  an  earnest,  hearty  strength, 

"I'll  listen — convince  me,"  she   murmured. 

He  laughed  triumphant  and  lifted  her  hands  to 
his  lips  before  he  rose  and  stood  before  her. 

"In  the  first  place,  may  it  please  your  Honor," 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  293 

he  began,  "I  ask  for  the  expunging  of  all  records 
that  put  me  to  the  cruel  and  unusual  test  of 
being  compared  with  impossible  ideals.  I  am 
just  a  man — not  a  bit  better  than  other  men,  and 
not  so  sure,  besides,  that  other  men  are  very  bad. 
I  have  strictly  human  standards.  I  have  strictly 
human  hopes.  My  love — oh,  my  love  for  you 
is  all  human — Jessie,  darling!" 

He  looked  down  upon  her  curled  up  against  the 
pillows.  She  looked  very  small  and  her  eyes,  as 
they  met  his  and  fell,  had  in  them  something 
appealing, 

"  I  have  none  of  the  arrogance  of  the  reformer. 
And  you — you,  Jessie  Incell,  with  the  steadiest 
head  that  ever  graced  a  purely  feminine  pair  of 
shoulders,  the  merriest  girl  I  know,  the  humanest 
woman,  the  truest  friend  to  a  fellow — how  did 
this  spell  for  the  unusual  come  over  you! 

"Come  to  me,  little  girl.  Be  my  wife,  my  dar 
ling,  my  dear  little  chum.  Let  us  live  happily  and 
naturally  together — we  deserve  happiness;  we 
two  have  worked  for  it.  It  is  not  our  fault  that 
others  haven't.  We  may  be  sorry  for  them — we 
can't  help  being,  out  of  the  fullness  of  our  own 
happiness — but  we  need  not  be  miserable  with 
them.  That  is  silly  and  wasteful  and  not  good 
political  economy,  besides  being  against  the  form 
of  statues  so  made  and  .  ,  .  Oh,  Jessie,  Jessie, 


294  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

I  shall  be  so  happy  if  you  say  yes!  I'll  make  you 
forget  he  ever  lived — he  really  didn't;  he  only 
dreamed,  and  you  dreamed  of  a  dream.  I  can — 
I  know  I  can.  I'll  bring  you  in  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  'isms'  into  the  simple  sunshine  of  just  ordi 
nary  life.  Just  ordinary  joys  we'll  have,  you  and 
I,  just  ordinary  sorrows,  and  I'll  love  you  and 
take  care  of  you  and  shield  you  from  these  last  with 
all  that's  man  in  me.  I'll  not  let  you  work  and 
I'll  not  let  you  worry.  You  shall  play  and  laugh 
and  enjoy  the  good  of  life  that's  coming  to  you. 
We'll  travel  together  and  see  the  world — what's 
beautiful  and  wholesome  and  tempting  in  it. 
I'll  rise  on  stepping  stones  of  my  lazy  self  to 
such  average  achievements  as  will  make  you  proud 
of  me — in  just  an  ordinary,  wifely  way.  We'll 
live  like  thousands  of  other  men  and  women. 
We'll  strive  for  what  they  do.  We'll  beat  them 
of  course— good-naturedly — for  how  can  we  help 
it,  when  you  and  I  work  together  ?  You  with  your 
balance,  your  experience,  your  pluck  and  sweet 
ness  and  merry  winsomeness  and  I  with — with 
you!"  He  laughed  down  at  her  and  an  answering 
smile  was  in  her  eyes. 

"That  arrogant  reformer!  It  was  only  the  best 
in  the  world  that  he  wanted — only  a  woman 
with  a  man's  tolerance  and  a  manly  brain — its 
quality  is  truly  feminine,  thank  God! — and  the 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  295 

sweetest,  most  spirited,  jolliest  little  face  in  the 
world!  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do — I  do  resent  him.  If 
he'd  gone  about  it  to  earn  you,  I  should  have 
respected  him — though  I'd  have  felt  like  putting 
a  knife  in  him  all  right.  If  he'd  stripped  for  the 
fight  and  bent  his  every  energy  to  making  a  name 
for  himself  and  a  place  for  you!  Why,  a  girl  like 
you,  Jessie  Incell,  is  a  prize  that  the  big  fellows 
might  enter  for.  .  .  .  I'm  conscious,  in  an  aver 
age  way,  of  my  unworthiness  myself.  I  ought  to  be  a 
millionaire  with  a  stakein  the  world  a  power  among 
men  to  dare  to  aspire  to  you,  but — but  it's  his 
very  impudence  that  nerved  me — that  wastrel! 

"Oh,  take  me,  Jessie,  and  give  me  a  chance  to 
show  what  an  average  man  can  do  for  the  woman 
he  loves.  Shall  I  be  a  millionaire  and  all  the  rest 
of  it  ?  Shall  I  go  in  for  politics  or  shall  I  just  oust 
old  Larkin  and  be  managing  editor  ?  I'll  do  it— 
any  of  it,  all  of  it.  Only  don't  keep  me  waiting 
any  longer — I  can't  wait.  That  lean,  lank  Adonis 
has  taken  up  too  much  of  our  time,  too  much  of 
our  life.  I  want  you  while  I'm  young,  while  all 
the  world  is  young  with  us  two.  I  want  to  grow 
gently  middle-aged  and  later,  if  it's  unavoidable,  I 
want  to  grow  old  with  you  beside  me,  close  to  me, 
your  heart  open  to  me,  my  heart  full  of  you, 
my " 

"You  good  fellow." 


296  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

Her  simple  words  with  their  accent  of  gentle 
grateful  sincerity  came  like  the  flower  of  promise 
to  him,  springing  full-blown  from  the  soil  his 
words  had  seeded. 

«  'Good'? Jessie!" 

He  dropped  on  the  window  seat  beside  her 
taking  her  hands  and  putting  an  arm  about  her 
whose  warm  strength  caught  and  held  her. 

"I'm  not  merely  good,  my  lady,"  he  laughed, 
"I'm  great.  I'm  big  with  happiness.  Come,  be 
generous,"  he  whispered  seeking  her  lips.  "The 
Lord  knows  I  love  a  cheerful  giver  and  she  gives 
twice  who  gives  quickly — but  I  won't  limit 
you  on  that  account.  You  can  give  both  ways 
and " 

But  she  withdrew  from  his  embrace,  her  face 
rosy  as  though  he  had  had  his  way. 

"No — please,  not  now.  You'll  go  now,  won't 
you,  like  a  good  fellow  ?  A — a  girl  doesn't  do 
this  sort  of  thing  lightly.  No — not  to-night, 
Dean.  Isn't  a  yes  enough  for  to-night  ?  Come 
to-morrow  in  the  morning  and  I'll — I  '11  be  more 
used  to  it.  You  deserve  a  loving  wife.  I  pro 
mise  to  be — loving.  But — not  now,  you  greedy, 
insistent  monster.  Go  now — now.  Good-night. 
In  the  morning — yes,  early.  Good-night.  .  .  . 
Good-night. " 

She   pushed   him   gently  toward   the   door,   he 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  297 

stooping  in  a  last  merry  protest  to  kiss  the  hands 
that  sent  him  forth.  And  when  the  door  closed 
behind  him  she  turned  the  key  swiftly  and  fell  upon 
the  couch,  her  head  buried  in  the  pillows,  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

But  she  sat  up  after  a  time  turning  her  wet,  in 
dignant  eyes  upward  as  upon  one  whose  memory 
reproached  her.  Her  trembling  lips  set  them 
selves  in  a  firm  curve  and  she  held  her  little  head 
haughtily.  She  went  into  her  bed-room  and 
bathed  her  face  and  loosed  her  pretty  brown  hair, 
its  soft  waves  framing  cheeks  that  were  flushed 
and  eyes  and  lids  still  betraying  emotion.  She 
dressed  for  the  night,  slipping  over  her  gown  a 
light  kimono,  the  femininity  of  whose  shapeless 
folds  fell  about  her,  an  incongruously  gentle  set 
ting  for  limbs  that  paced  resolutely  up  and  down 
till  she  had  quieted  and  conquered  that  unlooked- 
for  outburst  of  feeling. 

She  sat  at  last  by  the  grate  fire,  looking  into  its 
flames  and  assuring  herself  in  a  practical  tone 
(which  she  could  hear  although  no  word  passed  her 
lips)  that  she  had  done  a  wise  thing;  that  she  was 
glad  of  it;  that  she  had  always  been  fond  of  Dean 
Morgan  who  was  a  Man,  a  real,  flesh-and- 
blood  man,  a  man  of  courage  and  strength  and 
capacity.  A  dear  fellow,  too,  an  old,  tried  friend 
for  whose  love  she  was  very,  very  grateful;  whose 


298  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

wife  would  be  a  contented,  happy  woman — an 
enviable  woman — one  who 

Despite  herself  she  lost  articulate  control  of  her 
thoughts.  When  she  had  sat  down,  she  had 
meant  to  be  very  calm,  quite  placidly  happy.  She 
had  said  to  herself  that  after  all,  such  a  decision  as 
hers  in  such  a  case  did  not  call  for  extremes  of 
passion.  She  was  not  a  romantic  young  girl. 
She  was  a  woman  who  had  seen  mudi  of  the  world 
and  knew  sincerity  when  it  challenged  her.  Mor 
gan  loved  her;  she  would  love  him,  too.  She 
would.  She  would!  In  an  average  way — she 
smiled  at  the  word,  and  her  smile  was  tender — 
in  the  gentle,  placid  way  women  do  love,  taking 
affection  for  granted  and  meeting  it,  returning  it 
amiably — this  she  could  do,  too.  It  was  absurd, 
this  perpetual  plumbing  of  depths  that  should 
remain  unstirred,  she  said  plaintively.  In  time 
by  simply  ignoring  what  lay  below — in  time — 
surely  in  time  .  .  . 

She  looked  yearningly  into  the  fire. 

"It  ought  to  be  peopled  for  me,"  she  whispered 
bending  over  it,  "with  pictures  of  all  that  is  to 
come.  The  night  a  woman  promises — what  I  have, 
she  should  see  herself  and — and  her  husband  who 
will  be — together  there — but  I  can't!  I  can't! 
I  don't  see  us  two  together  there.  I  can't  even 
fancy Oh,  God,  that  other-night!" 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  299 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

From  the  next  room  came  Hilma's  passionless 
voice,  singing  her  boy  to  sleep  with  the  tragic,  old 
Norwegian  lullaby. 

Sleep,  babe, 

Thy  tiny  moments  are  sped  in  pain, 

Wake  not  again, 

Life  is  hard — sleep. 

Sleep,  child, 

Already  thine  hours  are  sore  with  grief, 

Sleep  brings  relief, 

Life  is  hard — sleep. 

Sleep,  maid, 

Thy  dreamful  days  are  but  bitter  sweet, 

Ere  noon-day's  heat. 

Life  is  hard — sleep. 

Sleep  wife, 

Ere  thou  wak'st  to  his  unfaith, 

Thy  love  a  wraith. 

Life  is  hard — sleep. 

Sleep,  mother, 

Before  thy  child  has  gone  from  thee, 

Forget  thy  misery. 

Life  is  hard — sleep. 

Sleep,  aged  one, 

Thou  knowest  this  wretched  world  of  men, 

Art  weary  then  ? 

Life  is  hard — sleep. 

And  beginning  more  softly  over  again — it  took 
long  to  get  the  child  to  sleep  that  night,  Hilma 
sang  again  "Sleep,  babe- 
There  came   a   sharp   peremptory   ring  at  the 
telephone.     A  quick   flush   flooded   Jessie's  face. 


300  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

It  was  Dean  Morgan's  call,  she  was  as  sure  as 
though  she  had  heard  his  own  positive  voice. 

The  bell  rang  again  before  she  answered  it. 
Then  she  rose  and  went  to  her  desk  with  some 
thing  of  that  same  decisive  quality  in  her  step. 

"It's  only  myself,"  came  Morgan's  voice  low 
over  the  phone  with  its  subtle  suggestion  of  all  he 
might  not  say.  "Just — good-night  once  more.  I 
know  you  can't  be  asleep  because — well,  I  know. 
Say  good-night — let  me  hear  your  voice." 

"It's  good-bye,  Dean,"  she  sobbed,  "it's  not 
good-night — it's  good-bye.  It's  impossible.  For 
give  me.  Oh,  do,  do  forgive  me!  No,  no — not  to 
morrow — never,  dear  old  fellow.  No,  nothing 
has  happened — only  something  had  happened 
long  ago,  Oh,  pity  me — No — good-bye!" 


\  *\ 

V         \      W 
i*T\      \\ 


1  'Oh,  pity  me No good-bye ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TT  7"OMEN  do  not  often  occupy  editorial  posi 
tions  on  newspapers.  They  marry,  die 
or  find  a  journalistic  grave  in  a  woman's  page. 
But  Miss  Incell  had  had  and  benefited  by  a  jour 
nalistic  training  that  was  rarely  thorough,  and 
when  she  came  at  last  to  a  desk  position  she  had 
so  accustomed  newspapermen  to  regard  her  as  a 
capable  one  of  their  number  that  the  appoint 
ment  was  not  even  jealously  considered  in  the 
light  of  an  innovation.  Jessie  was  merely  an 
honorable  exception;  a  precedent  which  other 
women  might  adduce  but  which  they  were  not 
likely  to  cause  to  be  repeated. 

Her  new  position  gave  her  a  certain  standing 
in  the  artistic  and  literary  community  which,  added 
to  that  friendly  gregariousness  that  had  always 
marked  her  relationship  with  her  fellow  reporters, 
made  her  a  unique  figure.  She  found  herself  an 
unpretentious  patroness  of  young  women  reporters, 
who  looked  up  to  her  as  a  feminine  flag  floating 
high  on  the  outposts  of  endeavor.  While  to  the 
lads  who  began  their  careers  under  her,  falling 
desperately  in  love  with  her  during  their  first  week 
in  the  office,  she  used  to  say,  "I'll  consider  all  that 
you  say,  my  dear  boy,  but  remember  we  measure 
the  growth  and  possibilities  of  green  reporters  in 

301 


302  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

this  office  by  the  length  of  time  it  takes  them — not 
to  fall  in  love  with  the  city  editor — but  out  of  it." 

It  became  the  fashion  for  foreigners  of  distinc 
tion,  influenced  to  do  unusual  things  in  a  strange 
environment,  to  be  presented  at  Miss  IncelPs 
thoroughly  Bohemian  little  evenings  and  to  write 
back  to  Europe  their  impressions  of  this  absurdly 
natural,  simple,  good-natured,  boyish  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  whom  men  treated  as  a  good  fellow  and 
whom  she  met  on  precisely  the  same  footing;  and 
in  whose  salon — an  informal  gathering  hardly 
recognizable  under  so  pretentious  a  label — men 
and  women,  artists,  actors,  professional  men, 
musicians  and  journalists  met  on  a  footing 
that  was  like  a  school's  playground,  so  unham 
pered  was  its  equality,  so  fearless  and  simple  and 
straightforward  its  atmosphere,  and  so  unaffecting 
of  either  masculine  airs  or  feminine  graces  was 
its  hostess. 

Jessie  Incell  was  a  puzzle  to  strangers  for  she 
held  a  social  position  that  only  married  women 
aspired  to  in  their  countries,  and  she  treated  the 
world  in  her  personal  intercourse  with  it  as  a  sex 
less  place  in  which  men  and  women  could  have  no 
meeting  point  that  was  not  platonic.  The  freedom 
of  speech  she  permitted,  her  lack  of  prejudice, 
except  an  intolerant  scorn  of  affectation  and  a 
sarcastic  impatience  of  sentimental  duets  in  which 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  3°3 

some  mistaken  visitor  might  choose  her  for  a  par 
ticipant,  and  a  charitable  indisposition  to  judge 
others — these  things  were  hardly  comprehensible 
to  strangers.  Yet  they  accepted  them  because  of 
the  mental  attitude  of  those  familiar  with  her 
character  and  her  situation;  and  concluded  that 
the  whole  was  a  phenomenon  of  the  West,  peculiar 
to  the  curious  little  city  on  the  Pacific  and  due 
to  its  literary  and  artistic  isolation,  as  well  as  its 
comparatively  small  population,  which  was  yet 
too  large,  too  cosmopolitan  and  too  Western  to  be 
wholly  provincial. 

In  the  judgment  of  those  who  had  known  her 
long  Jessie  Incell  had  developed  a  poise,  a  charity, 
a  largeness  that  was  clearly  traceable  to  the  dream 
she  had  dreamed  and  put  away  without  bitterness. 

She  had  a  new  aureole  now  in  her  landlady's 
eyes.  Old  Mrs.  Connor  invariably  alluded  to  her 
as  "The  Editor,"  refusing  to  believe  that  any 
other  lesser  mortal  in  the  journalistic  world  might 
wear  a  title  so  lofty  as  this.  It  was  with  an  eye 
to  Miss  Incell's  editorial  capacity  that  Mrs.  Connor 
revised  her  menu  and  sought  to  dignify  her  simple 
manner  of  living  to  correspond  with  her  elevated 
office.  When  she  found  her  excellent  intentions 
frustrated  she  attributed  her  defeat  to  Hilma, 
upon  whom  she  looked  as  something  unhuman, 
a  sort  of  travesty,  in  her  nurse's  cap  and  apron, 


304  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

on  a  sister  of  charity  which  any  good  Catholic 
must  resent.  But  she  adored  Hilma's  baby  and 
for  the  sake  of  that  merry-tongued  boy,  ceaselessly 
climbing  the  stairs  to  her  own  rooms  and  into 
her  sonless,  man-worshiping  heart,  she  lived  on 
terms  of  neutrality  with  the  placid  Swedish  woman 
who  never  so  much  as  suspected  Mrs.  Connor's 
sentiments. 

Morgan,  Jessie  rarely  saw.  He  was  managing 
editor  of  another  paper,  one  whose  semi- 
aristocratic  policy  made  his  work  much  more  con 
genial  than  it  had  been.  He  never  sought  Miss 
Incell  in  her  home.  A  bitter  resentment  filled 
him.  He  felt  himself  put  aside  unjustly  for  a 
shadow.  His  pride,  his  love  was  wounded.  A 
self-sufficient  man,  lightly  contemptuous  of  femi 
ninity,  he  had  looked  upon  but  one  woman  with 
reverential  eyes.  He  remained  unreconciled,  un 
forgiving.  He  thought  of  Jessie  as  one  who  held 
back  unfairly  something  that  belonged  of  right  to 
him;  something  that  he  might  honestly  have  won, 
fully  and  fairly,  had  it  not  been  for  a  fantasy 
that  possessed  her  to  deny  him  his  opportunity. 
There  was  much  that  was  masterful  in  the  man, 
developing  strongly  as  he  grew  older,  that 
did  not  brook  defeat;  that  regarded  as  insult 
ing  the  denial  of  the  thing  he  has  asked  for 
and  had  so  nearly  possessed;  the  precious  thing 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  305 

he  had  so  surely  counted  upon  once  as  within  his 
very  grasp. 

Doctor  Baumfelder  was  the  only  one  who  took 
active  and  whimsical  exception  to  Miss  Incell's 
state. 

"I  do  not  congratulate  you — I  deplore  your 
promotion,"  he  said  in  what  Miss  Incell  had  long 
ago  denominated  his  "grandfatherly-Lothario" 
manner.  He  had  brought  Hilma  home  in  his 
brougham  from  the  hospital  for  a  rest  and,  with 
Jessie  beside  him,  was  driving  away  from  his 
patients  and  out  through  the  park  to  the  ocean. 

"For  the  reason?"  she  demanded  lightly. 

"  For  the  reason  that  it  puts  you  in  a  position  to 
consider  your  standing  as  a  journalist  established, 
and  on  a  higher,  more  permanent  basis.  Which 
consequently  makes  you  independent  of  other 
ways  of  providing  for  the  future." 

"What  other  ways,  Doctor?" 

"The  old-established  one  of  working — your 
husband.  In  spite  of  all  women  like  you  have 
done  and  dreamed  it  is  still  the  best  way  for  women. 
And  being  best,  it  is  the  only  way." 

"Grandfather  Baumfelder!" 

"  My  dear  little  friend, "  he  returned  attentively. 

"After  all  the  care  and  patience  which  we 
Bohemians  have  spent  upon  your  education!" 
she  exclaimed. 


306  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"Miss  Jessie,  you  were  a  woman  before  you 
became  a  Bohemian.  And  for  woman — what 
ever  she  pretend  to  be,  whatever  she  delude  her 
self  into  thinking  she  is,  there  is  but  one  blessed 
fate.  And  that  fate — even  if  it  is  not  blessed,  is 
yet  blest  in  that  it  is  the  one  for  which  preemi 
nently  she  is  fitted.  Wait  now — listen  to  me.  I 
don't  often  preach.  And  it  is  more  than  a  theory 
I  wish  to  develop;  it  is  the  one  liberty  I  permit 
myself  with  you — an  interfering,  impertinent, 
heartfelt  desire  that  you  should  be  happy.  I 
should  have  tried  to  make  you  so  myself,"  he 
added  with  a  touch  of  the  old  gallantry  that  was 
not  yet  out  of  place  though  Baumfelder's  temples 
were  graying,  "if  you  hadn't  so  distinctly  given 
me  to  understand  from  the  very  beginning  on 
what  terms  we  two  could  be  friends." 

"It's  a  fib — you  know  it  is,"  she  fenced. 
"You  showed  by  your  manner  how  delighted  you 
were  to  know  one  woman  whom  you  were  not 
compelled — by  your  reputation  and  her  expecta 
tions — to  make  love  to." 

He  laughed  and  pulling  in  the  horses  let  them 
walk  slowly  through  the  surf;  they  had  reached 
the  beach. 

"You  shall  not  change  the  subject,"  he  said 
slowly.  "Let  me  be  grandfather  and  preach  to 
you  this  once.  I  truly  and  seriously  regret  when- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  307 

ever  I  see  a  woman  whose  vocation  makes  her 
financially  independent.  For  I  know  that  then 
she  will  lack  one  of  the  strongest  incentives  which 
Nature  has  invented  and  civilization  perfected,  to 
push  her  into  a  fate  that  is  best  for  her.  That 
fillip  which  a  man's  passions  are  to  him,  woman's 
dependence  is  to  her — and  Nature  provided  both 
with  a  wise  idea  of  what  is  best.  A  happy  mar 
riage,  Miss  Jessie,  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
for  a  woman;  a  not  so  happy  one  is  the  next  best. 
And  happy  the  woman  who  does  not  go  disdain 
fully  through  the  forest  to  take  up  at  last  with  a 
crooked  stick.  Yet  even  she  is  happier,  being  a 
woman,  than  the  one  who  will  accept  no  stick  at 
all.  My  dear  friend,  your  success  has  deprived 
you  of  the  impulse  toward  matrimony  that  was 
your  birthright.  Now — forgive  me — won't  you 
let  philosophy  take  its  place — temporarily  ?" 

"One  doesn't  marry  for  philosophy's  sake, 
Doctor,"  she  said  softly. 

"One  should — if  there  is  no  other  'sake'  to 
tempt  one." 

"Nonsense,  Doctor!  A  woman  who's  nearer 
thirty  than  twenty  knows  the  advantages  and  the 
disadvantages  of  celibacy." 

"But  a  woman  of  forty  knows  better.  Forty— 
the  tragic  age  when  woman  regrets,  and  mother 
hood,  that  seemed  as  beautifully,  joyously  in- 


3o8  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

evitable  as  the  passage  of  time,  shuts  the  door  of 
hope  in  her  wistful  face  and  she  sees  herself — sud 
denly;  it  all  seems  to  happen  like  a  strong,  swift 
tragedy — cut  out  of  the  stream  of  human  life; 
the  waters  of  her  individuality  wasted  in  a  desert, 
while  the  full,  riotous  human  stream  flows  past  her. 
Is  such  a  woman  as  you  are  to  be  content  with  so 
limited,  so  cramped,  so  dwarfed  a  part  of  human  ex 
perience,  of  what  is  humanity's  only  tangible  taste 
of  immortality — living  in  one's  children  ?  My 
dear  little  Miss  Jessie,  why  will  you  not  give  Dean 
Morgan  what  he  has  a  right  to  demand  from  you  ? 
Why  will  you  not  complete  his  life  and  let  him 
fill  yours  full  ?  Is  the  alternative  you  are  facing 
worthier,  wiser,  nobler  than  what  a  woman  like 
you  could  make  of  a  man  like  him  ?  Tell  me,  are 
you  going  to  let  him  throw  himself  away  upon  a 
Mrs.  Eveson  ?" 

"Is  it  to  be  Mrs.  Eveson?"  she  asked  slowly. 
"I  didn't  know." 

"Nor  care?" 

"Yes,  I  care.  I'm  fond  of  him — I've  always 
liked  him,  but  is  the  test  of  a  woman's  friendship 
for  a  man  her  readiness  to  step  in  and  rescue  him 
from  the  very  jaws  of  matrimony  by  marrying  him 
herself?  Must  I  marry  every  man  I  like,"  she 
demanded  merrily,  "who  shows  symptoms  of  be 
ing  about  to  contract  an  unfortunate  marriage  ? 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  309 

According  to  that  theory,  I  might  have  married 
you — unnecessarily,  wastefully,  officiously  have 
become  your  wife  to  save  you  from  the  very  fate 
that  threatens  Dean  Morgan;  a  fate  which,  it  turns 
out,  you  were  perfectly  well  able  to  avoid  for 
yourself." 

"It  never  threatened.  You're  clear-sighted 
enough  to  know  that.  You  know  me  pretty  well. 
In  fact,  at  times  I  resent  your  knowing  me  as  well 
as  you  do.  No  man  likes  a  woman  to  know  him 
too  well — particularly  when  he  wants  to  make  a 
partisan  of  that  woman.  .  .  .  Which  brings  me 
to  the  second  chapter.  You  won't  talk  to  me  of 
yourself.  Very  well.  But  you  will  think  of  what 
I  have  said;  it  is  scientific  truth  all  that  I  have 
preached  to  you,  with  a  very,  sincerely  affectionate 
regard  behind  it  all.  And  now,  will  you  talk 
to  me  of  myself — and  Hilma  ?" 

Miss  Incell  looked  up  quickly  into  her  com 
panion's  face.  The  horses  had  turned  back  and 
were  skimming  over  the  wide,  red  roads  which 
make  this  park  by  the  ocean  one  of  the  freest  and 
most  natural  in  the  world. 

"  Yes, "  she  said  decidedly,  "  I'll  be  glad  to.  Just 
what  are  your  intentions,  Doctor  Baumfelder  ?  " 

He  laughed.  "What  are  yours  ?"  he  returned. 
"I  said  I  wanted  to  make  a  partisan  of  you.  Are 
you  going  to  help  me  here  ?" 


3IO  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Hilma  has  promised  at  last  to  come  to  the 
office  to  take  the  nurse's  place  there.  I  want  her 
next  to  me.  I  want  her  to  get  accustomed  to 
living  with  me  professionally  so  that  when  I  shall 
ask  her  after  a  time  to  come  to  me,  she  will  put  the 
memory  of  that  mad-headed  little  Irishman  for 
ever  behind  her  and  accompany  my  life  with  the 
music  of  her  presence." 

"  She  never  will.     Hilma's  faithful. " 

"Oh  yes,  she  will."  Baumfelder's  bearded 
chin  set  firmly.  "She  will  be  my  wife  for  I  never 
in  all  my  life  set  my  heart  on  a  thing  that  I  did  not 
ultimately  get.  When  a  man  like  me  wooes  a 
woman,  Miss  Jessie,  it  is  not  with  any  intention  of 
accepting  defeat.  Half  I  glory  in  your  refusal  of 
Morgan,  for  the  contempt  I  have  for  him  in  abid 
ing  by  a  woman's  adverse  decision.  Do  you 
suppose  a  message  over  the  phone — he  has  told 
me,  of  course — would  have  settled  such  a  matter 
between  myself  and  the  woman  I  want  ?" 

"I  fail  to  see,  Don  Juan  Baumfelder,  what 
other  course  would  be  open  to  you,"  she  said 
pertly. 

"A  dozen  others.  Any  but  that  one.  And  I 
would — I  would,  I  swear  to  you,  tear  the  woman 
I  want — such  a  woman  as  Hilma — out  of  the 
very  heart  of  conventional  life  in  the  most  shame- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  311 

lessly  unconventional  manner,  if  I  could  get  her  in 
no  other  way.  I  would  have  her.  I  will  have  her. 
But  that  part  you  can  leave  to  me.  What  I— 

"I  won't.  I  shall  not  permit  an  avowed  cor 
sair,  a  late-middle-aged  corsair,  stout  and  a  bon- 
vivant,  to  get  his  opportunity.  Hilma  shan't 
work  in  your  office." 

"Ah  yes,  she  shall.  She  has  promised  already. 
I  defy  you  to  square  Hilma's  conscience  with  a 
broken  promise.  You'll  as  soon  find  a  false  note 
in  a  Schubert  song.  .  .  .  'Uber  alien  Gipfeln 
ist  Ruh'"  he  sang  in  a  clear,  musical  bass.  "My 
office  will  be  pervaded  by  the  melody  that  she 
walks  in  and  is,  as  by  the  perfume  a  vulgar  woman 
would  disseminate,  until  at  last  we  shall  sing  to 
gether,  'BaUe  ruhest  du  auch."' 

Miss  Incell  smiled  unimpressed. 

"A  romantic,  sentimental  surgeon-pirate  with 
a  strictly  common-sense  business  head  for  fees, 
music-mad  and  perversely  bound  to  set  his  heart 
upon  one  of  the  few  women  who  would  not  be  de 
lighted  to  marry  him.  Come,  Doctor,  be  reason 
able.  A  wealthy  pirate  like  yourself,  with  your 
professional  reputation  and  your  social  gifts — 
why  make  such  a  mesalliance  ?  A  Swedish  widow, 
a  trained  nurse  supporting  her  child  and  only 
slowly  mastering  uninverted  English.  Let  Hilma 
alone,  Doctor,  do!" 


3i2  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"I  can't.  I  won't.  I  coveted  her  the  moment 
I  saw  her.  I  want  her  differently  now  I'm  older." 

"You  can't  have  her.  You  don't  know  the 
quiet  tenacity  of  passion  love  means — and  means 
but  once — in  such  elemental  women's  natures." 

"I  do.  That  is  why  I  want  that  tenacity  of 
passion  to  clothe  my  life  as  a  garment.  I'll  not 
believe  such  a  fellow  as  Donaghey  could  have 
evoked  it. 

"You'd  not  make  her  happy,"  she  pleaded. 

"I  would.     Why  not?" 

"You  know  why." 

A  short  silence  fell  upon  them.  They  had  en 
tered  the  long  "pan-handle"  and  the  touch  of 
Baumfelder's  whip  just  then  made  the  horses 
leap  forward. 

"What  refuge  would  a  simple  heart  like  hers 
have  against  unfaith  in  her  husband  ?"  Jessie 
said  hurriedly.  "She  has  none  of  the  stock-in- 
trade  arguments,  part-physiological,  part-wordly, 
part  mock-philosophy  with  which  women  of  the 
world  salve  their  hurts  in  public.  She  is  simple 
as — tragedy,  poor  Hilma.  Would  you  try  the 
old  grotesque  comfort  on  such  a  nature — 'His 
heart  was  true  to  Poll  ?" 

"You  assume— 

"Let  us  not  speak  of  it — you  see  how  impossi 
ble  it  is  for  us  to  discuss.  But  Hilma  is,  in  a  sense, 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  313 

the  ward  of  my  worldly  wisdom.  It  is  not  very 
great,  but  such  as  it  is— 

"Listen,  I  am  not  admitting  your  assumption. 
I  tell  you  I  love  her.  But  granting  all  that  you 
imply,  still — still  she  must  marry  me  because  I 
will  have  her  and  because — it  is  best  for  her.  Yes, 
it  is.  In  exactly  the  same  sense  that  you  would  be 
a  greater  and  happier  woman  as  Morgan's  wife, 
she  will  be  as  mine.  You  women  that  hitch  your 
wagons  to  a  star,  that  fill  your  hearts  with  empty 
ideals — you  are  not  noble  but  limited.  Phari 
saically  selfish,  you  go  through  the  world  patting 
your  vanity  on  the  back  and  calling  your  cold  self- 
repression  virtue.  Bah,  you  are  mortal  and 
human,  if  you  will  only  be  yourselves.  You  may 
worship  a  wraith,  but  I  will  prevent  Hilma's  doing 
it.  You  two!  Why  you  live  like  nuns  adoring  a 
religion  that  is  dead!" 

They  were  making  their  way  slowly  through  the 
town.  A  feel-ing  of  fatigue  oppressed  Jessie. 
She  had  that  consciousness  of  powerlessness  with 
which  Baumfelder's  determination  and  vitality 
re-acted  upon  those  who  opposed  him. 

"  (Icb  babe  geliebet  und  gelebet,'  '  Baumfelder 
chanted  softly.  "It  is  still  the  beginning  and  the 
end  and  all  that  comes  between.  Don't  stand  in 
the  way — no,  you  won't.  You  will  not  dare  to 
influence  Hilma's  life  to  such  an  extent.  The 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

sense  of  responsibility  would  weigh  upon  you  and 
haunt  you.  Will  you  be  neutral — yes  ?  No 
human  being  has  a  right  to  be  more.  No  finite 
mind  can  truthfully  decide  where  happiness  for 
another  lies." 

"Except  in  such  negative  instances  as  are  in 
volved  in  preaching  the  gospel  of  matrimony  at  all 
hazards  and  for  all  comers." 

He  laughed.  "That,  as  you  say,  is  gospel.  If 
I  could  I  would  marry  you  this  minute  to  Morgan, 
if  for  nothing  else  but  to  set  before  Hilma  the  con 
tagion  of  your  example.  You  will  be  neutral?" 

"One  must  do  one's  duty,  Doctor." 

"Damn  duty — you  know  I  never  swear.  But 
damn  duty  for  yourself  and  shun  virtue  for  others. 
Be  good  and  let  us  be  happy.  And  have  faith  in 
my  love  for  her — my  reverence  for  her  purity.  Oh, 
was  ever  woman  in  such  humor  wooed  to  let  a  man 
woo  his  wife!  A  malediction  upon  you  new  women 
who  handle  a  question  with  the  freedom  of  men 
and  the  prejudices  of  girls!" 

"Are  you  going  to  keep  me  waiting  here  at  my 
own  door  while  you  abuse  me?"  she  asked. 

"No,  Fm  going  to  drive  on  past  the  house  and 
out  to  the  Presidio  so  that  I  can  reason  with 
you." 

"Don't—"  she  pleaded,  "I'm  tired." 

"Well — come,  all  I  ask  is  a  little  judicious  neu- 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  315 

trality.  Shut  your  preposterously  virtuous  eyes 
and  give  me  that  for  old  friendship's  sake." 

"My  friendship  for  Hilma  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  stoutly. 

"You  would  tire  the  most  enthusiastic  fighter. 
I— I " 

"You  yield!"  he  cried  leaping  out  of  the  car 
riage  and  lifting  her  with  a  strong  swing  to  the 
ground.  "Of  course  you  do.  That's  because 
you're  a  warm-hearted  woman  masquerading  as 
a  nun.  Neutrality  forever!  Yes,  that's  all.  But— 
congratulate  me,  my  dear  little  friend." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"DAUMFELDER  was  right --Jessie  Incell 
would  think  of  all  he  had  said.  She  did 
think  of  it  long  and  seriously  the  evening  of 
their  drive.  But  not  in  the  relation  the  Doctor 
had  recommended.  That  cheery,  easy  way  of 
looking  at  one's  own  affairs  as  though  they  were 
lightly  to  be  borne  as  another's,  that  pleasing, 
amiable  philosophy  of  contenting  oneself  with  the 
next  best  thing,  and  of  calmly  ordering  one's  life 
as  though  the  thing  one  craved  had  never  been — 
Jessie  Incell  had  passed  through  this  stage  the 
evening  she  had  looked  into  the  future  and  vainly 
tried  to  see  herself  and  Morgan  journeying  side  by 
side  on  their  way  through  life. 

But  hers  was  not  a  mind  to  shirk  consequences, 
nor  a  cowardly  heart  that  fed  on  illusions.  She 
was  frank  enough  with  herself  to  admit  that  all 
her  old  friend  had  preached  to  her  was  possibly 
true  of  others,  might  even  come  to  be  true  of  her 
self — strong  as  she  felt  herself  now  in  her  success, 
her  late  and  well-developed  youth,  her  few,  well- 
beloved  friends  and  the  smiling  band  of  acquain 
tances  that  made  her  leisure  light  and  swiftly- 
passing. 

Yet  she  knew  that  despite  it  all,  with  the  very 
vision  confronting  her  of  a  desolate  middle-aged 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  317 

self  that,  summoned  to  existence  by  the  Doctor's 
words,  seemed  loth  to  quit  the  imaginative  life 
she  had  found  and  pertinaciously  thrust  her  dry, 
thin,  limited  little  personality  in  her  predecessor's 
path — despite  it  all,  Jessie  Incell  could  only  accept 
the  threat  the  future  held;  she  could  not  evade  it. 

She  was  a  busy,  broad-minded  woman  living 
a  free,  cleanly  and  interesting  life.  She  was  not  a 
dreamer  and  she  was  too  practical  to  spend  her 
days  in  useless  regret.  But  she  saw  one  man 
haloed  by  the  depth  and  fulness  of  her  love  for  him; 
and  having  known  the  joy  of  giving  all  that  she 
had  she  could  not  comprehend  how  one  could 
learn  to  give  less. 

There  were  times  when  she  would  have  left  her 
work  and  all  her  sophisticated  femininity  behind 
her;  when  she  would  have  forfeited  the  esteem  of 
every  other  human  being,  and  have  followed  him— 
another  and  quite  as  single-idead  an  Evangeline, 
though  her  nature  was  neither  simple  nor  primi 
tive  and  circumstances  had  given  her  a  life  rarely 
full  of  experience — to  the  end  of  the  world,  con 
tent  if  only  she  might  find  him  at  the  last  and 
pillow  his  head  upon  her  breast  while  he  sighed 
out  her  name  at  parting. 

And  there  were  times  when  all  the  pride,  the 
vanity  of  her  nature,  all  her  glorying  sense  of 
achievement,  of  attainment  over  difficulties  before 


3i8  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

which  other  women  had  fallen  vanquished,  roused 
in  her  a  passion  of  resentment.  Then  she  longed 
to  have  him  once  again  in  her  power  that  she 
might  staunch  her  own  wounds  in  the  pleasure 
of  inflicting  others  upon  him. 

And  all  of  it — her  love,  her  pride,  her  suffering, 
her  despair  gave  a  quickening  growth  to  a  side  of 
her  nature  which  youthful  success  and  lack  of  any 
tender,  close  relation  in  life  had  almost  atrophied. 

When  she  went  up  alone  for  a  short  vacation  to 
Little  Gap  in  the  spring — a  tender,  chastened 
sort  of  pilgrimage  disguised  as  a  health  measure — 
she  looked  back  with  a  smile  and  a  blush  at  the 
girl  who  had  once  come  up  there  "on  a  story." 

"She  was  a  crude,  cruel  girl,"  she  said  to 
Grant  MacMillan,  who  had  buried  his  ci-devant 
clerical  character,  as  well  as  his  later  disrepute  in 
the  long,  lonely,  quiet  years  he  had  lived  on  the 
verge  of  the  forest.  "  Her  one  good  trait  was  her 
lack  of  malice,  real  malice.  She  had  a  certain 
sort  of  this  quality,  but  it  was  a  pseudo-malice — 
not  the  least  liking  in  the  world  to  see  people 
suffer,  only — only  the  spectator's  role  had  been 
hers  so  long  in  her  short  life  that  she  looked  upon 
people  as  a  species  of  flesh-and-blood  marionettes 
performing  for  the  sole  sake  of  a  pair  of  curious, 
unfeeling  eyes  and  a  smart,  sarcastic  tongue.  She 
had  a  sentimental  consciousness  of  their  reality,  of 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  319 

course,  but  it  was  the  melodramatic,  sensational 
reality  that  was  needed  to  make  her  story  suffici 
ently  true  to  her  readers.  She  fancied  herself 
very  wise,  very  old,  very  experienced.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  was  appallingly  young,  for  she 
had  never  felt.  No  one  had  ever  told  her  how  un 
becoming  pert  cynicism  is  to  youth.  No  doubt,  if 
anyone  had  taken  the  trouble,  she  would  have  had 
some  pert  insincerity  for  an  answer.  .  .  .  Not 
that  it  was  altogether  insincere,  though.  She 
was  playing  a  part,  you  know,  and  she  was  true  to 
that  part.  Truly — the  beauty  of  gentleness  and 
patience  and  simple,  cheery  faith  in  one's  fellows 
was  something  that  had  not  occurred  to  her.  She 
had  been  put  in  the  position  of  critic  of  the  faults 
and  follies  of  others.  Her  work,  which  had  its 
own  fascination,  for  she  was  young,  was  to  chroni 
cle  only  the  results  of  these  faults  and  follies.  I 
must  admit  that  something  in  her  nature  responded 
pleasurably  to  the  role  that  implied  a  superiority; 
she  was  opinionated,  she  delivered  snap  judgments 
upon  all  the  problems  of  life,  viewing  them  with 
round,  bird-like,  eager  eyes,  which  were  not  so 
much  unfeeling  really  as  non-feeling. 

"In  short — I  have  made  it  very  long — but  I 
see  a  difference  now.  And  if  I  could  walk  up  this 
road  she  learned  to  know  so  well  with  that  girl- 
that  poor,  little,  cock-sure  girl  who  walked  into 


320  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

people's  holy  of  holies  or  most  grisly  skeletoned 
closet  with  clicking  heels  and  a  cheerful  uncon 
sciousness  of  her  own  unhuman  lack  of  both — I 
could  explain  it  to  her,  if  I  haven't  to  you." 

She  experienced  a  grave  sort  of  pleasure  in  Mac- 
Millan's  society.  He  had  become  a  decent  mem 
ber  of  society  whose  worth  was  unquestioned  in 
this  little  mountain  town.  The  simple,  out  of 
door  life  he  led,  the  knowledge  he  had  that  no  one 
knew  either  of  his  two  widely-divergent  past  lives, 
and  the  coming  on  of  steadying  years  had  re 
deemed  him.  Jessie  made  him  a  sort  of  father 
confessor  in  the  days  she  spent  up  in  the  mountains, 
yielding  to  the  relief  it  was  to  say  something  of  all 
that  filled  her  thoughts. 

And  it  was  sweet  to  his  alienation  from  all  that 
the  world  means  of  the  joy  of  battle  for  its  prizes, 
to  watch  the  full  current  of  her  life  from  the  far-off 
banks  of  sympathy.  His  had  been  the  education, 
the  ideals  of  the  gentleman  and  the  scholar.  But 
his  fatal  weakness  had  cut  him  out  from  among 
his  fellows  and  condemned  him  to  a  poverty  of 
mental  existence  that  left  him  craving  for  asso 
ciation  with  cultured  minds.  Yet  he  was  still  too 
near  the  alternative  to  be  ungrateful  or  unhappy, 
and  the  sight  of  his  resignation  had  in  it  something 
that  calmed  and  strengthened  her. 

'Warte   nur>     '    she    sang   to   herself  in    the 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  321 

evening  alone  out  in  the  forest,  '  '  warte  nur, 
balde  ruhest  du  aucb.' 

It  was  all  she  remembered  of  the  poem  the 
Doctor  loved  to  quote,  and  she  chanted  it  over  and 
over  to  herself  as  she  walked  slowly  up  and  down 
the  road  in  front  of  the  cottage,  till  she  came  to 
believe  the  message  it  held.  And  then  suddenly, 
all  in  a  moment  of  intense,  passionate  feeling  she 
knew  it  was  a  lie — that  the  world  held  for  her  no 
such  barren,  untempted  rest  as  this  MacMillan 
had  found,  for  there  before  her  at  a  turn  in  the  road 
stood  Anthony  Overman. 

He  caught  her  up  in  his  arms  as  though  the  old 
Arcadian  days  had  come  again.  She  was  weak 
with  emotion,  as  she  had  been  that  day  with  suffer 
ing  when  he  had  lifted  her  upon  the  old  white 
horse  and  brought  her  down  from  the  hill  along 
this  very  road.  And  he  carried  her  close  pressed 
to  his  breast  across  the  little  yard  and  up  into  the 
the  house. 

"Oh  Anthony — Saint  Anthony,"  she  sobbed, 
"save  my  pride.  You  pick  me  up  and  drop  me 
and  find  me  in  the  road  again  and  after — 

"There  is  no  after,  sweetheart,  this  is  the  end. 
And  pride — pride — is  it?"  he  laughed  joyously 
depositing  her  in  Hilma's  low  chair;  "what  were 
the  temptations  of  the  poor  old  saint  to  all  that  I 
have  endured !  What  in  all " 


322  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

"What — What  made  you  come  back?"  she 
murmured. 

"You  .  .  .  You  .  .  .  You.  I  was  weary 
ing,  soul-wearying,  hungering,  thirsting — craving 
a  maid  I  knew.  A  maid — the  embodiec  essence 
of  love  and  merriment  and  sweetness  and  all  that's 
brave  and  beautiful  on  earth.  I  wanted  her — her. 
What  were  visions  of  women  to  that  saint — ab 
stract  flesh  pictures — to  the  feminine  soul  of  me 
that  drew  me — home.  Oh  Jessie  Jessie — pride 
is  it  ?  I've  lost  it  all.  The  pride  of  all  the  spiritual 
bastards  of  great  men,  the  modesty  of  all  th* 
world  of  women  could  not  have  kept  me  longer 
from  you. " 

He  had  changed.  He  was  leaner  even  than 
before  and  he  looked  forty,  though  his  figure,  as  he 
threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  her  and  put  his 
arms  about  her,  had  that  same  boyish  lightness 
and  agility  that  had  struck  her  the  first  time  she 
saw  him. 

She  put  both  hands  under  his  chin  turning  his 
face  up  to  hers.  It  was  an  older  face,  a  quieter 
one,  a  more  satisfied  one  despite  its  lines,  and  his 
eyes  met  hers  frankly,  contentedly  for  the  moment 
she  sent  hers  deep  into  them  searching  the  soul 
behind  it. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  demanded.  "Don't  you  like 
it?" 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  323 

"That's  just  it — I  always  did  like  it.  It 
seemed  so — so  like  something  that  was  meant 
to  be  mine — so  like  something  that  had  never 
been  any  other  woman's.  .  .  .  Anthony,  there's 
so  much  for  us  to  talk  over." 

"And  so  much  time  to  talk — all  our  life  to 
gether — it  is  only  one." 

"But " 

"  MacMillan  is  likely  to  be  back  any  minute,  you 
know.  I  saw  him  up  in  the  village.  I  wonder  if 
that's  he  now!"  He  rose  and  hurried  to  the 
window.  "No,  but  he  can't  be  much  longer. 
Aren't  we  semi-royal,  sweet,  to  have  our  own 
chaplain  ?" 

"Not " 

"Oh  yes,  to-day — this  evening — right  away. 
You  daren't  keep  me  waiting  a  moment  longer- 
after  all  these  years." 

"What  would  you  do?"  she  asked  a  trembling 
smile  on  her  lips,  "run  away  again  ?" 

"Yes,  and  carry  you  with  me." 

"Would  they  receive  a  pilgrimage  a  deux  into 
the  monastery,  do  you  think  ?" 

"About  as  far  and  for  about  as  long  as  they  re 
ceived  the  pilgrimage  of  one, "  he  answered.  "  See 
dear,  what  monasticism  taught  me — Practically 
to  benefit  humanity  is  the  next  step  to  loving  and 
pitying  it;  in  fact,  it  is  really  the  same  step,  for  the 


324  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

one  is  incomplete,  and  so  futile,  without  the  other. 
And  the  way  to  benefit  mankind  is  not  to  suffer 
for  it  but  to  work  for  it.  The  sane  consequent 
of  desiring  the  uplifting  of  mankind  is  to  put  one 
self  in  the  position  to  effect  it,  if  in  ever  so  little. 
To  do  this,  and  yet  in  the  process  of  doing  it,  not 
make  oneself  unworthy  of  the  end  for  which  it  was 
done — this  is  what  one  learns  from  himself  and  the 
monastery,  Jessie.  I  grew  nearer  to  you  up  there, 
and  down  here  the  same  miracle  that  kept  your  love 
for  me  made  you  grow  nearer  to  me.  You're  the 
exquisite  complement  of  my  shortcomings,  be 
loved — or  I'm  the  other  side  of  your  nature;  the 
later,  fuller  half  of  your  life.  Whichever  it  is  we'll 
live  it  together,  this  one  life  of  ours.  Oh,  I  knew, 
I  was  always  sure  that  at  the  end  was  your  love  for 
me,  sweetheart,  but  apart  from  love — or  perhaps 
the  core  of  it,  was  responsibility  for  you  and  justi 
fication  of  myself  in  your  eyes;  those  sane,  prac 
tical,  wide-open  eyes  that  looked  uncomprehending 
on  Hilma  and  poor  Will  and  me  that  day  long  ago, 
and  never  realized  that  they,  too,  would  grow 
glamored  by  the  ideal,  and  come  to  see  a  queer, 
one-sided  fellow  like  me  through  a  haze  that  made 
him  whole  and — beloved!" 

"Then  all  this  time  .  .  ."  Her  voice 
trembled  into  silence. 

"All  this  time  I've  been  working  toward  you. 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  325 

Oh,  you  will  find  me  practical  and  help  me  to 
become  more  so.  Let  me  tell  you.  Over  in  the 
old  world  where  misery  is  greatest  and  want  most 
clamoring  and  oppression  greediest,  there  are 
other  renunciants — real  ones;  cosmopolites  to 
whom  nationality  is  no  more  a  prison  limiting 
sympathies  than  a  foreign  language  is  a  bar  to 
flexible  tongues.  There  are  men  whose  hearts  are 
as  loving  as  mine  to  the  common  composite  brother 
of  us  all,  but  whose  brains  are  big  and  fertile  and 
whose  wits  are  keen  in  the  cause  of  altruism  as  a 
money  king's  who  is  egotistically  petrified  into  self. 
A  fewmen  such  as  these,banded  together  more  irre 
sistibly  by  the  master-passion  of  their  unselfish 
lives  than  capitalistic  pirates  are  whose  booty  is 
better  hunted  in  syndicates,  I've  come  across  over 
there  in  the  different  capitals.  I  went  to  them  as 
a  disciple;  they  received  me  as  a  comrade,  and  it 
is  their  strength  that  has  knitted  my  weakness,  my 
limitations  and  my  only  half-profitable  unworldli- 
ness  into  the  large,  reasonable  pattern  they  are 
slowly  weaving  of  the  world's  work,  its  tears  and 
its  hopes.  And  then 

"Work — tears — and  hopes,'*  she  commented 
softly.  "It's  been  just  this  and  for  so  long.  Will 
it  ever  be  more,  Anthony?" 

"Will  it!  Listen.  The  proof  that  we're  not 
mere  dreamers  lies  in  the  fact  that  men  who  have 


326  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

fortunes  to  give  as  well  as  faith  are  backing  our 
press  and  our  purpose.  When  you  know  Audif- 
fred,  you'll  understand.  Old  Audiffred,  'Father 
of  the  Future'  a  Russian  poet  called  him;  his 
mother  was  Russian,  you  know.  He's  the  founder 
of  that  great  Catholic  union  of  the  discontented, 
that  broad  new  church  of  sociology  in  which  re 
formers  of  every  variety  and  shade  of  idealism 
are  banded  together — at  least  temporarily  and  as 
a  war  measure — against  the  common  enemy,  con 
servatism.  In  London  we've  been  preaching,  in 
print,  to  the  Gentiles,  he  and  I.  But  he  goes  to 
St.  Petersburg  to  take  the  place  of  one  of  us  who 
was  killed  in  a  riot,  as  soon  as  I — as  we  get  back. 
Come!  Help  me  there — will  you,  comrade  ?  We'll 
get  the  paper  out  together,  sweetheart. " —His 
tone  had  changed;  his  heart  was  overflowing  and 
earnestness  in  him  to-day  was  but  for  a  moment. — 
"Will  you  be  my  managing  editor,  Jessie  Incell?" 
he  demanded  joyously. 

"But  Anthony,"  she  was  smiling  up  at  him, 
'this  is  so  sudden*.  There's  the  celibacy  of  the 
Reformer  to  be  considered — the  new  priesthood 
I've  heard  you  talk  about,  un-uniformed,  ungen- 
eraled,  unlimited;  free  as  priests  are  from  the 
chains  of  selfish  care  for  family  or  personal  ad 
vancement;  the  Order  of  Renunciants,  say,  but 
spiritually  superior  to  the  monkish  brotherhoods 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  327 

in  that  it  offers  an  even  greater  appeal  to  the 
martyr  in  man,  holding  out,  as  it  does,  no 
reward  in  this  world  or  the  next  except  only  that 
altruistic— 

"Yes,  yes,  Miss  Incell."  He  caught  her  fingers 
to  his  lips.  "We'll  consider  all  that,  young  lady — 
after  we  are  married." 

"You  are  frivolous,  Mr.  Overman." 

"You  are  impertinent,  Miss  Incell,  and  as 
you're  not  yet  my  wife  you  positively  must  observe 
the  proprieties  for  a  few  minutes  longer  and  not 
hector  a  man  who  is  literally  daft  with  happiness." 

"Do  you  fancy,  Anthony  Overman,"  she  de 
manded,  "that  I'm  going  to  give  up  my  prized 
city  editorship  for  a  partnership  in  a  freak  weekly  ?" 

"Exactly.  Just  as  you're  going  to  give  up 
your  independence  for  a  partnership  in  a  freak. 
See — love — I  have  no  ambition,  no  desire  to 
found  a  religion  nor  to  establish  a  system.  I  am 
not  of  the  proselytizing  kind  but  I  must  live 
the  life  that  seems  best  to  me.  If  I  fail  as  a  pam 
phleteer,  a  sort  of  bookish  labor  leader,  I  shall 
succeed  as  a  farm  hand  or  a  teamster.  In  the 
expenditure  of  his  own  physical  strength  a  man 
may  keep  honest — and  keep  wife  and  babies  too. 
Of  what  consequences  can  it  be  that  I'm  this  or 
that  during  the  course  of  my  life  ?  That  I  be  and 
be  myself,  my  limited,  honest,  single  self — this 


328  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

alone  is  vital.  Whether  I  possess  two  neckties 
instead  of  one  and  have  three  meals  rather  than 
two  is  unimportant.  But  you.  .  .  . "  Again 
he  was  on  his  knees  before  her,  as  though  praying 
her  forgiveness  for  all  his  love  required  of  her. 

"If  one  can,"  she  said  softly,  "two  must." 

He  put  her  hands  to  his  lips.  "I  know,"  he 
said,  "that  to  my  wife  superfluity  would  seem  like 
stealing  what  another  woman  lacked.  And  my 
child — even  if  she  were  yours — should  all  but  suf 
fer  that  another's  might  not  want.  .  .  .  Ought  I 
to  let  you  do  it  ?  That  is  what  has  occupied  my 
mind  every  moment  I  could  spare  from  blissful 
anticipation  on  the  voyage  out.  Ought  I— 

"We'll  consider  all  that,"  she  parodied  softly, 
"after  we  are  married.  .  .  I  wonder,  Anthony," 
she  added  merrily,  "if  we  haven't  discovered  a 
new  use,  the  real  one,  for  the  new  woman — to  be 
the  practical,  the  working  member  of  the  family, 
whose  head  is  a  recusant  celibate,  who  owes  him 
self  to  a  bigger  family  ?" 

"A  pretty  figure  your  head  of  the  family  cuts!" 
he  cried  with  an  appreciative  chuckle;  and  then 
more  seriously,  "of  course  you  will  be  a  working 
member;  not  even  your  husband,  Jessie,  could  be 
arrogant  enough  to  forbid  your  writing  to  say  the 
thing  you  feel — but  not  to  market  your  talent, 
nor  to  deny  the  man  who  loves  you  the  privilege 


ANTHONY  OVERMAN  329 

of  working  for  you.  No — no,  love  for  you  has 
taught  me  more  than  that.  It  is  Christlike,  not 
to  suffer  material  martyrdom  for  the  world's 
betterment,  but  to  be  possessed  by  thought  of  it; 
to  work  and  struggle  and  hope  everlastingly  for 
it.  And  if  one  should  die  —  caught  perhaps 
like  a  living  wedge  between  the  upper  and 
the  lower  stones — why  then,  to  die  know 
ing  that  others  as  humble  and  obscure  and 
patient  and  strong  will  go  on  working  and 
struggling  and  hoping  .  .  .  you're  not  cold, 
sweetheart  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  In  that  quick  shiver,  the 
revolt  of  her  flesh,  she  seemed  for  the  briefest 
space  of  time — so  fleeting  that  she  could  only  recog 
nize  it  as  something  that  had  been  and  was  no 
longer  except  as  a  memory — she  seemed  to  see  his 
old  delirium  realized:  a  myriad  of  hungry  cold 
eyes  and  cruel,  open  mouths,  and  he  alone,  buf 
feted,  torn,  rent  piecemeal,  swaying  the  very  tide 
of  this  school  of  destroying  creatures  by  the 
tenacious  life  that  clung  to  what  was  left  of  him 
and  their  desire  to  harm  that  remnant;  to  silence 
it,  to  obliterate  it. 

"Jessie — what  is  it?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  had  been  holding 
herself  from  him,  though  all  her  soul  was  melting 
within  her,  but  suddenly  she  drew  his  head  down 


330  ANTHONY  OVERMAN 

till  it  rested  on  her  breast,  and  folded  her  arms 
close  about  him. 

Her  Calvary  had  begun — the  spiritual  one  that 
even  he,  with  his  na' ve  and  inexperienced  recog 
nition  of  the  material  sacrifices  she  must  make, 
had  not  an  inkling  of.  Her  face  shone  as  he 
looked  up  bewildered,  worshipful,  overwhelmed 
by  the  maternal  tenderness  that  made  her  divine, 
and  the  exquisite  yielding  grace  that  left  her  all 
human. 


THE    END 


A     000073168     7 


